The Season's Trilogy I: Season Unending
by Boys Do Like Girls
Summary: Skyrim, 4E 201. Alduin's return on the eve of Jon of Solitude's execution begins the end of Tamriel. Hailed as Dragonborn and confronted with impossible decisions Jon will have to choose between love, duty and friendship as he struggles to battle an impossible foe... Skyrim is a much larger world/map ranging at about 1,500 miles. Some elements of the Lore have been changed.
1. Unbound

**Okay, first things first. This is a story that follows the Main Quest and elements of the Civil War that have been remixed to suit my story. Rate well, hope it's good. **

_**A story of Thanes and Jarls, love and war, friendship and rivalry and the concept of power…**_

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

The Nord across from Ralof was waking up. About time, too. Then Ralof looked back at the Nord's hair, black as midnight, but matted heavily with blood. Perhaps it was only fair after all that he was only just waking up. In fact, he was pretty sure that the Nord should be dead. The injury was, after all Ralof conceded, one that lesser men died from. But the man wasn't dead. Not yet.

He groaned as he woke, muttering curses under his breath. Ralof thought that it was time to announce his presence.

'So, you're finally awake.'

The Nord jerked up, his eyes snapping open. Ralof flinched slightly; Talos! His eyes were a light blue, more silvery blue, and he had whitish silver mixed in among it. But what really shocked Ralof was the _deepness _of his eyes. They looked powerful. Almost like they were humming with energy, desperate to get out. But as he registered Ralof, this flare died slowly, almost like he was suppressing it.

He spoke, 'Who are you, brother Nord?'

'Ralof, of Riverwood. You were caught in that ambush, right? Trying to cross the border?'

'I crossed the border. Pity the Empire's so good at enforcing unjust laws, but can't win a war to save its hide;' the Nord replied, bitterness not quite remaining from entering his tone.

'Got a bone to pick with the Empire, huh? You'll have another in an hour or so.' Ralof turned to the next man. 'And your name, horse thief?'

The man looked up; his tangled hair pushed back, shoulder length. His thin face was not impassive like Ralof's dark-haired friend. It displayed fear.

'Lokir, of Rorikstead.'

'Ah, a nice village. I've been there many a time.' Ralof began to muse, before the Nord opposite him jerked up again.

'Rorikstead? You come from Rorikstead?'

'Yeah, what of it?'

The Nord looked almost excited, if that was possible from such a gloomy figure; 'You know of a farm, south of-'

'Quiet there!' The guard hushed them and the carriage fell silent. Lokir began to quietly talk to the Nord opposite him.

He was big, a few inches taller than Ralof himself, although this wasn't apparent as the man was sitting, like the rest of them, bound and, unlike the rest of them, gagged. His long hair was braided down the back, and reached his shoulders too. His face was long, and displayed a fearsome strength. A few small scars adorned his rough features, and his face displayed a few lines. The Nord's build was that of a bear, and one of a man of thirty, whereas Ralof knew him to instead be around his mid-forties. His neat beard, the same yellowy blond as his hair, was neat and he wore a expensive, heavy fur cloak.

'I'm talking to you, Nord!'

'Hey!' Ralof intervened between the big man and Lokir; 'You're talking to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, of Windhelm, and true High King of Skyrim!'

Lokir looked shocked; 'Ulfric? You're the leader of the rebellion. If they've got you… Gods! Where are they taking us?'

'Make your ancestors proud, and be quiet.' Ralof had only contempt for Lokir. He was no true Nord.

'Quite there!' The guard was a stickler for the rules. As were all Imperials.

**Helgen, a fortified hamlet, in Falkreath Hold. This was to be his place of death. **

Ralof looked at the town, and towers.

'Strange, Imperial towers used to make me feel so safe;' Ralof said to no one in particular.

'That is strange. They used to make me feel the same.' It was the mysterious Nord who had spoken. He looked strange, as if he was regarding Ralof for the first time. Ralof shivered under his intense gaze. The Nord continued; 'what did they do to you?'

Now that Ralof had unwittingly coaxed a few words from him, he noticed the Nord's voice. It rumbled, not unpleasantly, but despite its strength it was perfectly clear, like a running stream. There was no waver as he spoke. It sounded vaguely familiar, and then it struck Ralof. Jarl Ulfric spoke in a similar manner. There was clearly more to this man than he originally thought.

By now the wagons were grinding to a halt, and Lokir was speaking again.

'No! I'm not a criminal, get me out of here!'

'Horse thief, face your death like a Nord!' The mysterious figure opposite Ralof spoke, his voice ringing with authority. Lokir quickly fell silent, subdued and the dark haired Nord looked at him with disgust. Ralof shared his feelings; no true Nord cried like a youngling. They are the men of the North, and as such have had to adapt to survive. Ralof wondered whether he really did hail from Rorikstead after all, and then a memory flitted back; Rorikstead was famous for its superior harvests; he would never have known hardship.

'Okay prisoners, get off and line up;' the Imperial Captain was typical of the south, strict and self-centred. Ralof made his way down, with Ulfric leading and Lokir directly in front. The mysterious Nord followed him. Ralof dropped to the dirt, and straightened up. Now that they were lined up the differences in height could be seen. They all towered over the Imperial men (Imperial being a race of man, as well as a faction) by a good four inches at least, and Ulfric had six inches over them.

Ralof looked to his right, at the mysterious Nord and suppressed his surprise again; he towered over all of them, at least eight inches taller than the Imperials; dwarfing Ralof and Lokir. His build was strong, lighter than Ulfric's, but the way he carried himself suggested that again, something was hidden in him waiting to emerge. In any case, there was a lot more to this Nord than met the eye.

'Ralof of Riverwood.' Ralof was disturbed from his pondering. _Time to meet my end, _he thought. The idea of death didn't disturb him though. After all, Sovngarde awaited the valiant dead, a place of drink and song; where heroes exchanged their stories. Death was not to be feared.

Ralof followed Jarl Ulfric to the execution centre and waited in a corner. He heard Lokir run and heard the arrow whistle pass, but he was glad to see the dark-haired Nord was as calm and silent as ever. _There might be a place in Sovngarde for him, _Ralof mused. There was certainly far more to be seen from him, and this curiosity was quickly becoming the only thing Ralof regretted in his death. That, and the death of the Stormcloaks. With Jarl Ulfric's demise their cause was almost certainly doomed. Fate worked in mysterious ways; maybe it was never to be.

'You, the Nord in the rags!' The mysterious Nord moved forward to take his place, looking strangely calm. However his eyes were misty; he wasn't as calm as he appeared. The Nord rested his head on the block, his body sagging with despair. There was definitely more to this Nord than met the eye. But before Ralof could think of anything more, the headsman raised his axe and brung it down…


	2. The World Eater Returns

**Hope you enjoyed the first part. Now, time to meet the protagonist of the story, whose identity I'm sure you've already guessed. **

**Jon, of Solitude**

**Jon's only thought was of Ysold. He imagined her brown hair against his** cheek, her soft skin replaced the wood and the headsman's axe became her dress, falling on him as she ripped it off. Her voice echoed in his mind, soft like the fields around where they lived. And then it came: the despair. As he sat on this block, so too Ysold sat at a table, the seconds ticking down the time until she became a widow. If there was an escape, Jon would take it, by there wasn't.  
A roar pierced his thoughts, and a dragon swept out of the rising ash and fire. _A Dragon!_ _They're extinct. Or they were. _And as the roar pierced the night, so too did it pierce Jon's despair. There was hope. And he was to be damned if he wasn't going to grab it.

'Come, my friend, we need to go!'  
Jon quickly rolled off the block, his battered muscles from the skirmish earlier were making themselves known. He looked around; Helgen was being destroyed, flames were falling from the sky, and Ralof of Riverwood was calling him.  
'We need to go! Follow me!'  
Jon didn't think, just stumbled to his feet and started sprinting after the other Nord.  
They stumbled into a tower opposite the execution square and came face to face with the Jarl and a band of his 'Stormcloaks'.  
'Ralof!' The bear of a man greeted the other rebel.  
'Jarl Ulfric, what legend is this?'  
'Legends don't burn down villages.'  
'But what is it?'  
'What else Ralof? A dragon.' The Jarl flashed them a smile, his white teeth gleaming. His voice was clear and strong, almost unnaturally so;

'Come, if there are dragons in Skyrim, then Windhelm must know about it!' He mounted the stairs, set in one corner of the round tower, and began to climb. Jon followed, as did the others. Ulfric raced ahead, stumbling to a halt as an Imperial Guard, watching the commotion outside turned to him.  
'Jarl Ulfric! Your head is going to fetch me my own farm!'  
'Forward Imperial dog! You will be the first kill for the return of the Stormcloaks!' The man ripped his sword from his sheath, and Jon, behind Ulfric on the steps, gave a groan of despair; foiled by one guard with the lucky chance of facing unarmed men on a set of enclosed stairs. But Ulfric didn't share his doubt.  
The man swung his sword, in an attempt to cut off Ulfric's head. As the sword arced round, Ulfric ducked and slammed his considerable weight into the man's stomach. Winded, the Imperial went to one knee, where Ulfric neatly grabbed his head and twisted. He was dead before he hit the stone floor.  
Jon was surprised by the display of ferocity, and required a push by Ralof, up past the landing, and up the next flight of steps. Jon himself had spent time in a mercenary squad, the 'Dragon Blades', before he met Ysold and was a formidable fighter himself, but Ulfric's display of fighting prowess was something that even the best of them would have respected. Jon was of a shared opinion.  
They made it up to the next flight, Ulfric having buckled on the Imperial's sword himself, before the wall burst open and the dragon breathed fire into the tower. Ulfric recoiled and it leapt back into the air. The Jarl recovered his composure quickly, regaining control of the situation.  
'Right, we need to jump down into the inn below;' the rebel told his companions. Jon looked over the edge and sure enough the top floor of a burning inn loomed about 10 feet down. Not wanting to be subject to the Jarl's authority any more than circumstance had forced him to be, Jon quickly leapt down to the inn floor, landing heavily.  
Pain lanced up his legs but Jon had experienced worse. He staggered to his feet and stumbled to a corner of the burning inn, waiting for the others.  
They landed in quick succession, all grunting at the uncomfortable landing. Last down was Ulfric, who assessed them, pronounced then ready, and quickly made his way down the burning stairs, the Imperial sword at his side jangling.  
** They burst out of the inn, into the sooty air and the cries of battle. **With heads looking nervously to the sky, fearfully foreshadowing an attack by the dragon, the small band made their way down the muddy street, past the wounded and burning bodies.  
'We need to reach the main square; the tower has an exit to the outskirts of the town,' one of Ulfric's Stormcloaks informed the group.  
'Good.' Ulfric slapped the man's shoulder and favoured him with a smile. 'Let's go.'  
The band made its way through the town as fire raged and the dragon swooped out of the ash like a harpy, swallowing the unfortunate Imperial soldiers, until finally the group burst from the ash, two men short; the dragon having been more indifferent to its prey than Jon originally thought. Despite his own hardiness, Jon was shaken and even Ulfric was displaying anxiety as he glanced at sky.  
No prompt was needed and the group rushed to the tower the soldier, still alive mercifully, indicated.  
Ralof, of Riverwood was nearing the entrance when a group of Imperial soldiers burst from one of the other exits to the burning streets. Both groups staggered to a halt and squared off.  
The lead Imperial, a young Nord with brown hair shouted;  
'Ha, this is it Ralof! No escape this time.' Jon had no idea who he was, but Ralof was clearly familiar with this man.  
'Move aside Hadvar, we're escaping.'  
'Not this time.' Jon could already see what was happening. His suspicion was confirmed when the Imperial's group moved closer, forming a rough line and began drawing their swords. Jon's group was better armed than before, having undertaken the grisly task of looting the dead of their weapons, but the Imperials had mail armour, (something the prisoner had no time or real desire to loot) and one or two shields. The odds were even though, each group had seven men apiece, but the advantages were too favourable for the Imperials. Jon could already see the outcome.  
But then it happened. As both groups readied their weapons, the dragon struck. Everyone scattered, and Jon's desire for survival restarted and he ran for the keep, slamming down the door into the main room.  
Adrenaline pumped through his body and, not for the first time, Jon felt a knot build in his stomach, rising to his throat, restricting his breathing. He let out several breaths, trying to remove the feeling from his throat. It was regular experience he felt when he was in the Dragon Blades, or when he was facing against a stray wolf, who had wandered into his fields. No, _their_ fields; Ysold's and his. The thought of Ysold had resurfaced and Jon brutally pushed it down. Escape was the only thing important right now. But that wasn't entirely true, and Jon knew it.  
Nonetheless he lifted himself to his feet, somewhat surprised to find the Windhelm Jarl and Ralof of Riverwood, both recovering their breath near him.  
The Jarl, Ulfric, got to his feet and approached Jon.  
'Kinsman. I don't believe we ever met properly. I am Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, son of Hoag, and heir to the Throne of Ysgramor. Who are you?' Jon was loath to part with his name, by courtesy demanded it from him.  
'I'm Jon, of Solitude. No fancy title.' Ulfric processed this new information and smiled a thin smile.  
'No my friend, be glad. A title only restricts one, especially if they are as fiery as myself. Call me Ulfric.' He extended his arm and Jon grasped it. It was strong.


	3. A Tight Feeling

**Okay, moving onto the last and probably most awaited character, I don't know. But I always thought it would be interesting to see the world from his view, because as far as I know, he never is a POV character. Then again, I'm not the most prolific Skyrim Fanfiction reader. No, I am not. Here he is… **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

Ulfric peered around the corner. There were four Imperials taking quietly. This was going to be easy. The Jarl glanced back at his two companions, the only two to escape the dragon. He grunted with satisfaction. Ralof was able and brave, part of Ulfric's own bodyguard and Jon was unknown to him; hopefully his fearless build and cool attitude suggested something about the warrior inside him.

'Okay, kinsmen; four Imperials. We can take them.'

'With a surprise attack, the numbers aren't too advantageous, but they could decide the day if even one of us sustained an early wound.' The Nord, Jon was speaking. His outlook was astute, if too cautious for Ulfric. Also, he wasn't used to being challenged. His mood showed, as he demanded Jon's opinion.

'How would you do it, then?' Jon didn't appear to be phased by Ulfric's tone, and he continued as if Ulfric had never said anything. The Jarl felt a twinge of annoyance, before he realised this was the kind of man he respected. He pushed it down and allowed Jon to finish.

'Put emphasis on the surprise, and we can probably best them.'

'Right,' Ulfric conceded, the advice was good, before he turned to Ralof. 'What say you Riverwood?'

'My Jarl, the Stormcloaks can take on any number of foes, just ask it of me!' All bravado, Ulfric acknowledged disappointingly; his men were too prone to repeating his own stock-phrases. _One of the reasons I like Galmer so much. He doesn't please me, he tells me._

'Fine, we'll surprise them. It's too much like a milk-drinker for my liking.' Ulfric told Jon, grudgingly.

'If it helps us survive, I don't think Talos would disapprove.' Jon shot back.

Ulfric just nodded, and readied the axe he has retrieved off a body of a Stormcloak they had found earlier. He was still sobered by that; it was the price of war, for good Nords to die in service to a just cause, but still, knowing that they fought for him and died for him was something that he couldn't shake. Nonetheless he needed to survive, and he preferred an axe to a sword, especially an Imperial Sword, so the looking was necessary. Along with the axe also came a set of Stormcloak mail for Jon, Ralof having been in his armour when he was captured, and the Imperials not having bothered to remove Ulfric's own mail, bracers and greaves. Now, his small group was as ready as they could be for the long journey through the tower.

'Okay, on the count of three, we attack. We overwhelm one of the men together and then I expect you to each bring your own Imperial into the afterlife. Right? Three, two, one!'

Ulfric burst from the cover of the wall, sprinting through the doorway and he leaped, swinging his axe and bringing it down on one of the Imperial heads. One down, three to go.

But now with Jon and Ralof lagging behind slightly, the Imperials had prepared themselves. Weapons clashed as two groups met, axe slamming against sword and the cries of men overcome by bloodlust.

Ulfric displaced his first enemy, ensuring that the soldier wouldn't get up, before turning to come face to face with a slim man, dressed in light robes. Ulfric let out a laugh, mocking him and ran forward; he had no qualms about winning an unfair fight. Ulfric raised his axe and swung it, carried forward by the momentum.

As he neared the man, a blast of light connected with his stomach and he went spiralling back, stung.

_In the name of Talos, magic! _Ulfric cursed his own stupidity; the man was wearing robes. _Of course he was a magician, he should have been targeted first!_

It was too late for that now, though and Ulfric squared off against his opponent, his body still aching form the lightning and he hoped that his companions would be finished with their own fights soon. Either that, or Ulfric's daring escape might have been in vain.

The wizard shot lightning again and the Jarl dodged, rolling as the magician trailed a wall of lightning after him. A quick blast caught Ulfric's shoulder and he was thrown onto his back. Dazed, his axe gone he tried to get to his feet. That familiar feeling was building in his throat, restricting his breath and making him feel light-headed.

He looked up, just as Ralof swung his axe into the man's back. _A death blow for certain. I might yet live another day. _Ralof's face was filled with triumph, but as his sword was brought down it glanced off the Imperial's back, lightning numbing Ralof's arm and making him drop the axe. The mage kicked Ralof down and pulled a dagger from his belt. Jon had dispatched his opponent and was advancing warily behind him, his sword raised, stepping quietly.

The mage, however, wasn't fooled and held out an arm to Jon, throwing him back against the wall. Ulfric knew what needed to be done, but did he want to do it. The tightness in his throat was causing him problems now, and he could hardly breathe; he needed to let it out. But he couldn't control it as well as Argneir, his Greybeard master, but then again his skill outmatched the others. After all, he could still talk and use the thu'um, the legendary language of the dragons.

There was no choice though, so Ulfric took his only option. He started speaking, pulling in air to his lungs, feeling the tightness build to such an extent that he couldn't actually breathe. The time was now.

'**FUS, RO, DAH!' **Ulfric's voice boomed, resembling that of a dragons and out of his mouth came a force, white in the middle, turning greyer as it reached the edges of the blast, until it turned a midnight black on the outskirts of the force; the two colours, grey and black were found in his own eyes, and as Argneir had said; _'Your thu'um resembles your eyes. There is no explanation for this, but the fact that your eyes are windows to the soul, so your 'shout' represents this balance.' _

_At least that's what Argneir said. _Ulfric was still a bit wary about the colour of his thu'um. _What did the black mean?_ Another reason why he used them sparingly.

In any case, the result was explosive. The mage was thrown back, and so was his lightning as he tried to stop Ulfric. He slammed into the wall, his neck broken from the impact of the shout, but that wasn't the only damage. The mage had received the epicentre but the others were affected too. Both Jon and Ralof were pushed into the opposite wall and Ulfric was staggered, the only relief being the fact that the tightness around his throat was gone and he felt as if he were breathing in the fresh, snowy air around Windhelm. The keep had been damaged, the stonework beginning to fall apart. As Ulfric had said; he lacked control.

'Run!' He shouted at the others, his voice hoarse from using the thu'um, and he sprinted for the passage leading to the underground and hopefully, the exit out of Helgen. Jon pushed himself to his feet, he had fared remarkably well in the aftermath of the shout, and he pulled up Ralof and pushed him forward. The other Stormcloak had not fared well, and his head was ringing. They ran through the gap, the keep behind them falling apart. Ulfric dived into the cavern at the end of the passage, with Jon and Ralof close on his heels.

_God's blood! That's why I don't do it. _Ulfric got up and looked around him.

'**Is everyone alright?' **

'What was that?' Jon looked shocked, his composure broken. 'Was that… a shout?'

'The ancient Nords called it a 'thu'um', the 'Storm Voice' or yes, a shout. A powerful tool, but its fiery and unpredictable. You cannot gauge what its going to do;' Ulfric told Jon.

'An impressive skill. A very impressive skill.' Jon couldn't quite keep the jealousy off his face.

'It is okay my friend. It takes many years to practice, but come with me to Windhelm and I would be happy to teach some of my knowledge. You are an able warrior and if you are ready to commit, so am I. But know this, I will not authorise any gain on its behalf. The Greybeards managed to teach me that at least.' A sombre note entered Ulfric's voice, and he lapsed into silence.

'It appears that there is more to you, Jarl Ulfric, than I originally thought.' Jon said his tone respectful. _A true Nord. He respects prowess in battle and the power of the thu'um. _

'Stay with me, and you'll learn a lot more, Jon of Solitude.' Ulfric flashed him a smile. Jon smiled back, a rare occurrence on a face as gloomy as his.

'I would like to see this 'Throne of Ysgramor', he conceded.

'Then Ralof and I have a lot more to tell you. Come with us to Windhelm, and I'll show you our cause and my city. You'll make a good Stormcloak.'

'Perhaps; I'll think on it.' _Damn him; independent and logical. Gods, he would make a good Stormcloak. _Ulfric decided not to press it, but rather turned and said;

'I see the way out. About five days to Windhelm, as the horse rides.'

'Jarl Ulfric;' the Jarl turned to Ralof with surprise. He normally kept silent, no doubt musing about this or that. 'I have relatives in Riverwood. It's about a day walk from here. Should we camp there, and announce the presence of the dragon?'

'Yes, that seems logical Ralof. In any case, word will soon spread and we need supplies if we intend to return to Windhelm.' Ulfric started forward. Riverwood it was then.


	4. An Imperial Perspective

**Okay, in reality I already wrote these chapters before I was eve allowed to post them. Okay, last character to be introduced. I wasn't expecting to follow him, but there you go. He has a lot of potential in conjuncture to Ulfric. Enjoy, I hope. **

**General Tullius **

Imperial General Tullius: Commander of the Skyrim Legions, Governor of Castle Dour and Military Adviser to the High King of Skyrim surveyed what used to be the fortified hamlet for Helgen. He was going to get hell from the Falkreith king, no Jarl. _I must remember that. _The damage was immense; Tullius entertained little hope that this dump would ever get back on its feet. _At least not in my lifetime_.

He climbed the rubble of a tower, an Imperial tower no less, and looked at the skeleton of Helgen. Everything was broken. Some of the towers still stood, but the scorch marks would forever pay testament to the historic day the hamlet had just witnessed.

When the dragon had first arrived, fear had gripped Tullius' heart. A Stormcloak dragon? It seemed impossible, but then so too did the power of the voice before Ulfric used it on his escort when he had just arrived at Skyrim, on his way to Solitude, the capital of Skyrim and base of Imperial operations. It had been a hard fought skirmish, but Ulfric had got what he wanted, the Imperial supplies, and fled as quickly as he arrived. Since then any surprise had largely been knocked out of him, but a dragon?

Tullius could not say that he wasn't slightly pleased when the dragon burnt a group of Stormcloaks to a crisp. Admittedly they had been engaged with a group of Imperial legionnaires, but the relief he felt at the indifference of the dragon to the war effort made up for the loss of men. Almost. The losses had been high, especially for the Imperials who, of course, had made up most of the men here, but the greatest of the losses, and one Tullius would have gladly paid a hundred men more for, was the loss of Ulfric Stormcloak.

The Nordic lord had proved to be far more tenacious than Tullius could ever have anticipated; his oratory skills and personal courage in the field were worth a thousand men. If nothing else, Ulfric was beginning to earn the General's respect; something not easily earnt, as the men of the Legion were coming to realise.

It started raining, the water plastering Tullius' short, grey hair to his head. He let out a long breath, and trudged down the rubble to the most intact tower, the makeshift headquarters of the remaining troops while they cleared up the mess, processed the former residents of Helgen and then moved out back to Solitude to plan the next stage of the Civil War.

**He walked up to the tower, noticing the two guards on duty who were thoroughly drenched and unhappy. **

'Here, lads, go get some mead in the tower before you catch pneumonia. We need every man if we are going to see Ulfric's head on a pike before the end.' He gave them a thin smile and they almost ran off to the opposite tower before turning back and quickly saluting. The men were restless, Tullius acknowledged. They needed to move out soon.

The remains of the legion had only been here three days after the escape, but the men of the Skyrim Legions were predominately Nords, and battle was, Tullius had been forced to acknowledge, in their blood. He went through the doorway, only to be accosted by the Thalmor's Chief agent, Elenwen. Like most high elves she belonged to the Thalmor, an Elven supremacy group intent on world domination, or so it would seem, Tullius accepted grimly. She had the golden skin and long, sharp features of the high elves and annoyingly she towered over Tullius at least seven-foot, with long platinum hair and black eyes. He shivered. Damn elves.

'Tullius, when do we leave? We've been here for days now.'

'We leave when I say. If you're so desperate, the road is still usable, Elenwen. And I expect you to refer to me as General. Even the Thalmor are not beyond rank, not yet.' Tullius said curtly. The damned arrogance of the Thalmor was something he hated, far more than Ulfric. One day, there would be a reckoning, one day soon.

'The Thalmor won't stand for this _General_. Mark my words.'

'And I don't give a damn for the Thalmor, so be quiet and get out of my sight.'

Elenwen shot him am icy stare, but Tullius was still the authority in Imperial Skyrim, for now, and she stalked off. Tullius knew he was going to have to watch his back from now on, or he might find a knife planted there.

**Tullius walked up to the Helgen command table, one of the few possessions to have survived. **Unfortunately, Legate Rikke wasn't there, the female Nord having taken control of Solitude in the General's absence. The Legate there was Andamius Cadian, a good man, but not what he needed now.

'General.' He saluted smartly. 'The remaining troops have organised into new cohorts and the handling of the new refuges is underway.' Tullius' mood sunk lower. _Of course, the late Helgen residents. Homes would have to found and supplies catered out. More money, as if the Empire wasn't dealing with enough problems. The Falkreath Kin- Jarl would have to deal with them. He won't like it, but he was in his position on the Empire's grace and will just have to deal with it. _Tullius was aware that it wasn't going to win him any allies, but sometimes the Empire couldn't do everything, so the boy was just going to have to learn how to look after his people.

'Sir,' Cadian ventured carefully. Tullius jerked back into reality. He realised that he must have been standing there for enough time to make the Legate uncomfortable.

'Fine, good. I want to move out of this…' He struggled for the words, 'town, or what's left of it. Send up ink and parchment, I have to write a letter to the Falkreath Jarl. We move out in the next few days, make the arrangements.' Tullius strode off as his officer saluted and hurried carried out the orders. _One perk of power; you leave the details to others. _Tullius smiled thinly to himself and climbed the steps to his temporary bedroom. 


	5. A Wander Down To Riverwood

**I was always annoyed that Skyrim was way too small, so I've increased the size of it. Towns and cities now take days and weeks to get to, rather than a day. I also increased the size of most things. However they do look the same, for those Skyrim players, and Riverwood is pretty much untouched. A big thanks to HappymEn Say, Shes Comin. and WingedButterfly for their reviews and favourites. Hopefully I'll get more as the story becomes more unique as it progresses, but A BIG THANKS TO ALL! Please review, I would really appreciate it and thanks to all!**

**Jon, of Solitude **

Riverwood looked peaceful enough. It also looked very prosperous, Jon observed. The mill was working well and a hefty pile of firewood lay near it. It had its own blacksmith, a fair sized forge with a few weapons hung on racks. The forge, like most in Skyrim, was located in an extended, raised wooden porch off the main building. It was square, about 15-20 paces wide, the same as the house, and twice that across from the wall of the house it was built against to its far end. A round, open forge was set in to the left of it, the space free being occupied with tools, examples of his craft and apparatus for sharpening and fitting.

'My sister lives her with her husband. They own the mill;' he said proudly. 'The owners of the mill have always run the town.' While Ralof started rambling about how he grew up, set to learn how to run a mill and incidentally how he might have one day run the town, Jon looked around at the people. They did seem happy, contently going about their various businesses; stopping to chat with other residents. It was idyllic, Jon reflected, very similar to the life he and Ysold had led before he left. But he was going to return.

Jon had sent a letter when he left for Skyrim, and he had yet to receive a reply. But then, why would he? He had left straight away, and she had no idea of where he would have gone. Jon resolved to find some kind of way to send a message to her before he left Riverwood.

Ulfric nudged Jon, and whispered. 'Goes on more than an Imperial bureaucrat, this one;' pointing at Ralof. Jon smiled, Ralof had started recounting the days when he learnt to use weapons from a Nord named Hull Battle-Born, a member of the one of the most powerful families in Whiterun Hold.

Ralof turned to Ulfric, who had been on the verge of nodding off, his eyes glazing over and his head beginning to droop. He jerked up;

'Ralof, my friend; those are your kinsmen, yes?' He pointed at a pair working in to the side of the mill.

'Yes, that's my sister; she owns the mill, and the town in a way.' Ralof nudged Jon conspiratorially, and he returned Ralof's grin with a weak smile.

They were in the lumber camp now and Ralof gave a wave to the woman, a slender Nord in her late twenties, with blond hair; who returned it and started towards them, staring at Ulfric curiously. They had tried to convince Ulfric to discard the fine, black iron mail he wore under his expensive fur cloak, but he wouldn't have it; this mail was forged for his family by the finest blacksmith in Eastmarch, and as for the cloak, did you they know how much it cost?

_That was exactly the reason for it, _Jon thought warily; Ulfric was attracting way too much attention. Even though many people didn't know what he looked like, having only heard tales of him, the recent escape just south of here and the fine clothes were something even the village idiot could work out. But if Ulfric was intent on dying, so be it.

'Ralof, it's good to see you.' They embraced and she turned to Jon and Ulfric; 'who are your companions?'

Ulfric stepped forward, his height towering over Ralof's sister. 'I am Jar-', Jon pushed past him to quickly introduce himself before Ulfric could say more.

'Jon, of Solitude; it's a pleasure.' He kneeled and kissed her hand, making Ralof's sister blush a little.

Ulfric was thoroughly disgruntled, but he realised the need for the interruption and greeted her in a strange Eastmarchien manner with good grace.

'It is good to see you. I am Gerdur of Riverwood. This is my husband Hod.' She motioned the man next to her, who had followed. He was stocky, for a Nord, with dirty blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a beard that covered his upper lip and sides, but not under his mouth. Jon thought it looked stupid, but Gerdur looked happy with it and so he said no more.

Ralof started to talk, but she cut across him and continued herself; 'we need to talk, inside.' She called for her husband and they made their way across Riverwood to a large house, the biggest in the town. Perhaps Ralof was exaggerating his claim to Thane-hood.

They stepped inside a large, cosy home with a large fire and long table.

'Please sit.' Gerdur motioned at the table and ladled some stew form the pot by the fire for the three men. They thanked her and sat down to eat, finishing their stews in mere minutes. Gerdur stood close next to Hod with an amused smile on her face.

Finally she said; 'So brother, what brings you here with a mercenary and the Jarl of Windhelm.'

Ralof's head snapped up. 'Sister, the people must not know.'

'I'm a true Nord, I will hold my tongue.' She snapped; 'I don't appreciate the jumps to conclusions.'

'Yes, of course sister. I apologise.' Gerdur accepted it with a nod of her head. It was Hod who spoke.

'Jarl Ulfric, if we may ask; why are you here?'

Ulfric looked up, and his eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the axe at his side.

'I didn't mean it like that, my Jarl. You are safe with us.'

'Of course, my friend.' He replied darkly, 'of course.'

'Right,' Ralof interrupted. 'Where are our beds?'


	6. A Clash of Opinions

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

Ralof walked down the main street of Riverwood, breathing in the fresh, bitter air of Skyrim. My home.  
Ralof walked to Alvor's house, the town's blacksmith, intending to ask about how he could sharpen his axe or perhaps purchase a greatsword. His axe was fine, but it was too light, the blade dull and broad. A heavier, longer weapon suited him.  
Ralof started up the steps to the round forge, and collided with another Nord.  
'My apologies, kinsman, I-' All words failed as he recognised the Nord: Hadvar. His old enemy looked as shocked as Ralof himself, but a look came across his face that he recognised well enough from their childhood together; the look Hadvar got when something made perfect sense, but it was a bitter truth.  
'I should have guessed. Of course you would seek refuge here, with your sister. I'm with my uncle.' Hadvar explained.  
Yes, that clicked. Alvor Blacksmith was his uncle and the destruction of Helgen left him as vulnerable as himself. It didn't change the fact he was an Imperial and Ralof a Stormcloak, though.  
'Move aside traitor.'  
'Traitor!' Hadvar protested, 'Nords have never been fair weather friends, Ralof. The Empire has its faults, but it has always done well by us.'  
'What, like banning Talos!'  
'If they hadn't done that we wouldn't be here. Or rather, we would be Thalmor slaves.' Hadvar reflected bitterly.  
'Jarl Ulfric will crush them all!' Ralof replied hotly.  
'Really? Skyrim fought the Dominion once, with the Empire at their back. And who won that again?'  
'Ulfric is different. He commands the power of the voice and many will rally.' Ralof replied.

'I hear he lets the Dark Elves rot in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm, and as the Argonians; they're allowed in right?'

Ralof looked uncomfortable. It was true that the other races might not be happy to follow a true Nord. 'What, as opposed to Tullius, or Titus Mede?'

It was Hadvar's turn to look uncomfortable, but he still threw it back.

'Better them, than a racist Nord, who controls only the smallest powers of the Voice!'

'Ulfric's battle prowess is unmatched. He fought in the battle for the Imperial City, and won as an anointed war hero! He'll beat them again.'

'And when he's captured again. I don't think the Thalmor will just let him go.'

Dirty rat!' Ralof exploded; 'we will win!' He pulled his axe from his belt, but Hadvar hesitated with his sword.

'Getting cold feet, huh?' Ralof shot at Hadvar scornfully.

'WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?' A voice boomed. It was Alvor Blacksmith. 'A Stormcloak, eh?' He questioned, when he spotted Ralof's armour. 'Mail, and padded jerkin. Cheap, but good enough for rebels I suppose.'

Ralof felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Of course, he was an Imperialist. He wasn't going to be able to buy any weapons here. He trudged off immediately, turning his back to Hadvar and his uncle.

**He opened the door to his sister's house. **Jon was there, as was Ulfric. They must have got back from the mill. Jon and Ulfric, quite generously Ralf though (he was a Jarl), had offered to work at the mill in exchange for Gerdur and Hod's hospitality. They had been surprised at the offer, by agreed nonetheless, paying them a wage for their work. By now they had been in Riverwood for a week, and things had gone well so far. But it seemed an argument was brewing.

'Whiterun is miles away. It would take days, even a week to reach it!' Jon's voice.

'TheJarl must know of the dragon.' Gerdur's voice.

'Fine, but I need to reach Rorikstead. I don't have time to see the Jarl, if we would even admit me;' Jon said as an afterthought.

'Rorikstead this, Rorikstead that. You go on about it all the time! You need to see the Jarl!'

Ralof intervened; 'why don't I go?'

They turned, and Gerdur looked her brother up and down. 'Are you sure? It's a long way as the giant strides.'

'I'll be fine, if Jon would come with me?' He looked at Jon questioningly.

'I thank you for your hospitality, but I wouldn't return. From Whiterun I would hire a carriage to Rorikstead.' Jon said carefully.

'Fine, it would be good. You continue on your way and the Jarl is warned. Everyone is happy.'

'Fine, okay. We'll leave in the next few days. I'll finish my slot on the mill and then we're leave, right?'

'Sounds good.' Ralof agreed.

'Good. Good. If I'm killed at the Jarl's expense I expect the village to come to my funeral.'

'The Jarl is a good man.' Gerdur told Jon.

'They all are, until you say the wrong thing.' Jon said, quietly.

**Okay, things are about to become slightly more diverse. But fro now, it still follows the Main Quest fairly rigidly. **


	7. Three True Nords

**Jon, of Solitude **

'**Alvor Blacksmith?'**

'Aye, that's me, stranger.'

Jon had been sent by Ralof to fulfil his needs before they set out for Whiterun, being the only impartial member of their group. Ralof had explained that Alvor wouldn't serve him: he was a Stormcloak and true Nord. Jon, however, had the luxury of being impartial.

He had used his wage to get the supplies. First it was to the Blacksmith, for new weapons. Then, he was to head to the General Goods store for their food and cloaks.

'I need a greatsword: steel, with a curved handle, typical of an iron one and a leather grip.'

Alvor nodded his consent. 'A fine choice.'

'I also need a longsword, typical length with a straight crossguard and steel blade. A fuller would be nice.'

'It'll cost more.' Alvor warned Jon.

'I want a decent blade.' _(A fuller is an indented line down the blade, and uses less material. Overall it makes the blade lighter, without sacrificing its strength.)_

'Ha!' Alvor let a laugh. 'A good man! You are only as strong as your weapon. I'll have them done in three days.'

'Fine.' It was later than he wanted to leave, but Alvor's trade was difficult, expensive and skilful. What he said, went.

**Jon next headed to the goods store to gather some supplies. It was called the** 'Riverwood Trader' and as Jon stepped up to the porch a confrontation was taking place between a Nord bard, or at least that's what his clothing showed him to be, and a Wood Elf. As Jon approached they looked like they were able to come to heads, with a pretty Imperial woman standing between them, trying to keep them apart.

The Nord leapt for the Wood Elf, and he nimbly stepped aside, letting the bard fall into his knee. He then grabbed the back of the Nord's tunic and hauled him up, but the bard rammed an uppercut into his jaw. The elf staggered back, stunned; and the bard looked ready to finish him before Jon hauled him back.

The woman looked to Jon with relief, and came up to him. 'Thank you so much. They've always been at heads, but since I chose Faendal, Sven has become quite violent.'

The elf, supposedly Faendal, from the way he wrapped his arm around the Imperial woman's waist, said; 'Yes, thank you friend. I could have taken him but,' he looked sheepishly at the woman; 'I didn't want to get our relationship off to a bad start. Camilla and Sven are friends.'

'Were;' the woman, Camilla, corrected Faendal. 'So, traveller, what do you need?'

'I was actually going to buy from the trader.' Jon told her.

'Wonderful! My brother, Lucan owns it. I'll tell him how you just helped me, and I'm sure he'll do a discount.'

Jon smiled; it looked like his day was taking a turn for the better.

**The Riverwood Trader was a neat shop. It was wooden, with the wares stacked **orderly on the shelves. Camilla's brother, presumably Lucan, looked up from the desk he stood behind.

'Welcome, welcome! I'm Lucan Valerius. I see you've met my sister Camilla.'

'This man just helped Faendal and me with Sven. We're very grateful.' Camilla said, pointedly.

Lucan looked shrewd, but shrugged and told Jon; 'Feel free to take advantage of discount prices.'

'That would be most welcome.' Jon was never one to pass up a good deal, and he gave Lucan a nod.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the store, having brought all the supplies he and Ralof would need for the trip to Whiterun. They would be delivered to Gerdur's house. Dusk was falling and Jon made his way to the inn, called 'The Drunken Giant', to refresh himself. He hadn't had a good drink since before he returned to Skyrim. The inn was crowded nicely and warm fire was burning. Behind the counter stood a female Breton.

'Can I get a drink?' Jon asked.

'Of course, traveller. It's five septims.' Jon pulled out the coins and passed them over. He still found it strange that the Empire used septims, having been named after the Septim Dynasty of Emperors; the family that had started with Tiber Septim, almighty Talos himself, the God of War and Governance and also the reason for the Stormcloak Rebellion.

In the White-Gold Concordet, the Empire had signed a peace treaty to end the war with the Thalmor, and one of the terms had been to stop the worship of Talos, who they believed to still be a mere man, even though he had been raised to Godhood.

_Well, it was that or die, _Jon thought angrily. He hated the Thalmor, as did every Nord, Imperial and a considerable chunk of the other Tamrielic races. They even claimed to have stopped the Oblivion Crisis, a great war in which a daedric god had attempted to invade Cyrodiil, the centre province of Tamriel. Emperor Martin Septim, the bastard son of Uriel Septim VIII, led the defence and eventually won, but not before dying in the process. As with all Nords, he despised the Thalmor bitterly. In any case, the current dynasty were the descendents of the usurper, Titus Mede I. Then again, there had been no Emperor at all; Martin Septim was the last.

'You!' Jon turned to face a big Nord, with wide shoulders and little hair. His watery eyes squinted at Jon, as if sizing him up. 'You're in my seat!'

Jon looked at the seat, at the innkeeper behind the bar, who just shrugged but continued to watch, before back at the man. 'I wasn't aware that this was your seat.' Jon knew he had to oppose this Nord, otherwise he would lose his honour as a fighter, vital in a Nordic society.

'Well, it is.' The man claimed brutishly.

'_Was._' Jon replied coolly. 'I think you'll find it's mine now.' He turned to his drink, and the Nord looked around, as if wondering what to do. He made a decision and grabbed the back of Jon's shirt and hauled him to his feet, in an attempt to throw him, but Jon was ready. As the man grabbed him and pulled Jon round, he swung his drink and broke it on the other Nord's face.

'Arggh!' He staggered… into his waiting friends. There were five of them, and they were all clammering for Jon's blood. They rushed him together and Jon kicked off the counter, his feet slamming into two of them. They fell back, but the other three rushed him, dauntless of Jon's size (they were all pretty big as well, but nowhere near on par with the giant Nord). He slammed a fist into one of them, but the other two pinned Jon. The Nord who had originally tried to take his seat stepped up and slammed a fist into Jon's stomach, winding him. The other people in the bar watched as the Nord raised his fist for another blow, this time to Jon's face, before a hand grabbed his neck and threw him aside. It was Ulfric Stormcloak. Ralof was at his side.

'A true Nord doesn't fight five on one;' he growled. 'But come and see if you can take three!' Ulfric launched himself at another of the men, slamming him into a table. Ralof punched one of the men restraining Jon, and Jon slammed the other one's head against the bar. Both Nord's were grabbed by more of the drunken Nord's gang (he had a lot of friends), but their military pasts paid off; Jon slamming his elbow into his attackers neck, while Ralof head-butted his opponents nose. They fell back and Ralof turned to Jon.

'Ready for round two?' Ralof flashed him a grin and tackled another Nord, this one putting up more of a fight, while Jon squared up to a man near his own size.

The Nord swung round a punch to Jon's head and they exchanged blows, both trying to win an advantage. His fighter was more cautious and harder to take down than the others. Another Nord flew into Jon's opponent, knocking him a bit and Jon smashed his fist into his Nord's face. Ulfric followed the thrown man, pinning his adversary and delivering a head-butt that knocked him out.

The Jarl grabbed Jon's opponent from him and swung him onto the bar, bringing a mug down on his head. He turned to face Jon, panting, and looked around. Their opponents were all knocked out, or severely winded. Ralof came up from a table, wiping blood from his lip.

'We got 'em.' Ralof smiled.

Jon returned it. 'Thanks for the help, kinsmen.'

'They weren't true Nords;' Ulfric claimed, grabbing Jon's shoulders, and Jon began to wonder what _was_ a true Nord. But by then Ulfric had control of their shoulders and he steered the three of them out of the inn. 'Let's find somewhere else to drink.' He told them.


	8. A Den of Wolves

**Thanks for the favourite Hinode36. This is the first unique chapter and I hope you like it. I'd love reviews, so if you can be bothered please enter one! **

**General Tullius**

General Tullius looked up from the campaign table in Solitude's Castle Dour, at the messenger in front of him.  
'My Jarl-'  
'No, no;' Tullius interrupted the messenger. 'I'm "General". I command the Skyrim Legions.'  
'Yes… sir,' the messenger asked cautiously.  
'Right.' Tullius returned to studying the campaign map, along with his second-in-command, Legate Rikke, Legate Cato and Tribune Cipius.  
'Sir, Jarl Elisif requests your presence.'  
Damn queen! Tullius raged silently; the result of the rebellion was crucial to whether she would hold the throne or not, and yet she still called for him every few days, for reasons which, as of now, Tullius was still trying to fathom.

'Lead the way then, boy.' The messenger quickly turned and waited outside the door, as Tullius pulled on a light cloak of a deep reddish-purple, the colour of the Legions, over his simple military tunic and leggings. The General fastened it with a small, golden dragon, the traditional symbol of the Empire; that and his sword, with its silver blade, and ivory and gold handle, were the only ornaments he wore. Tullius didn't believe in wealth for a military general. It made you forget your position as a warrior above all else, but the brooch was a gift from the Emperor, Imperator Titus Mede II, and Tullius was honoured to wear it.

**The messenger led Tullius from Castle Dour, out across Solitude. **Tullius motioned to the guards waiting by the door and two followed him. As Tullius had learnt, when the fate of the Empire resided so strongly on one man, it was best to take precautions. His guards were dressed in full Imperial plate, with spears and swords. They would protect him.

As Tullius made his way through Solitude he looked out around the city. It was gleaming stone, a true cosmopolitan city, and the sun was shining, bringing a little warmth onto the streets, but Tullius could have wished for more.

As he approached the Blue Palace, the home of the Jarl of Solitude, Tullius again marvelled at its impressive structure. It rivalled many of the buildings in Cyrodiil and he had been surprised to realise that the Nords could create something like this. They entered the courtyard and made their way into the palace proper.

The inside was distinctly Imperial, the palace having only been built a few hundred years ago, certainly during the rule of the Empire and the Septims. It was cold though. _How do these Nords suffer these frigid temperatures? _He wondered, the chill reaching his bones a little. Ten years ago, he wouldn't have felt it. But Tullius was fifty, not old and certainly able to get stuck in battle, but still; it was harder to brave these conditions. He decided that this was going to be his last campaign: he had served the Empire faithfully and wanted to use his wealth to settle down near Anvil, before he was cut to pieces. He already bore several scars, the biggest across his chest when he had intercepted an assassin's knife. But that had been years ago. It was past time to retire.

He made his way up the steps, to stand in front of the Jarl's throne. In this regard, the Blue Palace failed. The throne was set to one side, and the distance between it and the stairs was pitiful small. The hall in Whiterun was far more impressive, he recalled or better; the throne room in White Gold Tower in the Imperial City. That must be a tenth of a mile down, lined with the Penitus Oculatus at every pillar. _**That**__ was impressive_, Tullius mused.

He turned his attention to the woman in the throne; Elisif, Jarl of Solitude, Lady of Haafinger, Consort of the late High King, called 'the Fair'. She _was _stunning, Tullius conceded. Her fiery hair was bound back, but loosely, it's thick, shiny coils falling into her face. Elisif's pair of green-blue eyes were clear and striking; and her face was angled slightly, with a dainty nose and a small, but pleasant, mouth. Her physical features were also… impressive_, _Tullius decided. She had full chest and slim figure, with slightly pronounced hips, to create some nice curves, ensuring that it wouldn't be long before she had a new husband. But her youth, she must late teens, maybe early twenties, was her undoing. Elisif was naïve, not stupid by any means; her grasp on politics was quickly progressing, but not fast enough Tullius noticed. Her Thanes, the minor lords who ruled towns or parts of the Hold in her name, were close by and Tullius didn't like how they were analysing her court manner and decisions.

'Imperator.' Tullius knelt before her throne.

'Please rise, General.' Her voice was lilting and distracting, it drew men from their tasks, a powerful tool in politics, even if she didn't know it. 'I have important reasons for asking you here.'

_Important? This must be the fifth time she summoned me this week, but I'm sure this time it'll be important. _Tullius thought, annoyed. But he didn't say anything.

'Of course, Imperator.' Tullius replied.

'General, in Skyrim the Jarls are "my Jarl". Only the Emperor is allowed "Imperator".' Elisif informed Tullius, not unkindly. A smile played on her lips, but that wasn't good. _Tullius wanted to tell her to be more authorative: this is your court, I'm a stranger! I should be treated as such_. And yet, still he held his tongue.

'After the loss of Fort Snowhawk, the rebels have a point in which to launch an attack on us;' she continued. 'We need to consider defence and I would value your opinion.'

'If it please, my Jarl.'

'It would be appreciated, General.'

'Then we shall.' Tullius said. 'We would need to go to the war room.'

'Of course-', she began. She was interrupted by one of her Thanes, a Nord, of middling Nordic height with long sandy hair. Tullius recalled him as Erikur.

'This is a waste of time! The rebels are never even going to get near Solitude. If they do, then we're going to Oblivion anyway. I think we should discuss the real problem: a lack of Imperial leadership. Starting with the loss of Fort Snowhawk.' He looked smugly at Tullius and the General repaid it in kind. Erikur hated the Imperials (and the Stormcloaks), Tullius had quickly realised after a few days at court. His power as a Thane, second to only the Jarls, and in differing circumstances, greater than that of the Housecarl's and Steward's, made him a powerful political figure and his skill in court made him all the more dangerous to the Jarl.

'Well, if you'll recall Thane Erikur,' (his position as the leader of Skyrim's military power gave him a power on par with the Thane), 'the Empire was able to obtain the loyalty of Morthal, while Snowhawk was being attacked. Fort Snowhawk resides in Imperial territory now and the…' Tullius hesitated. He couldn't get the title wrong now; '…Jarl of Morthal has promised her aid, in the form of a contingent of men. The latest reports see them advancing on the fort. We outnumber them 3-1. I expect to see it returned to Imperial control within the week.'

Erikur looked put out, but not entirely. The fact that Tullius had to defend his actions was proof that his power was beginning to wane. Many of the Jarls and Thanes who were still loyal to the Emperor, as they should be, had wanted a quick reaction, but Tullius couldn't give it to them. Ulfric was a determined leader, and while his strategy was too imperious to match Tullius' own, their individual leadership qualities couldn't have been at more of a contrast, Tullius recognised.

Jarl Elisif rose from her throne and glided to the war room with her retinue and Tullius followed. As a guard passed him, he noticed the emblem; the Solitude wolf. _It couldn't have been more apt_, he thought wearily.


	9. The Jarl of Whiterun

**Okay, next chapter. I had fun writing this one, and creating Balgruuf. If you do English Lit. then you might, (like me) be comparing all the Jarl's seen so far in terms of power, entrance and loads of other English Lit. crap. In any case thanks to FernanRx182 for the favourite. Please review!**

**Jon, of Solitude**

Jon looked up at Whiterun, the Capital of Whiterun Hold. It was an impressive city, built on a hill, with a massive palace dominating the highest point.  
Jon and Ralof trudged up to the gate. They had been travelling for near on a week and they were eager to reach the sanctuary.  
As he crossed under the first of the drawbridges leading to the main gate, Ralof held him back.  
'What's the matter?' Jon asked Ralof.  
'I'm a Stormcloak, a 'traitor'. As of yet Whiterun hasn't declared allegiance to either side. I'm unsure about entering.'  
'So I'm meeting the Jarl alone?'  
'It's a high honour, my friend. Be cautious around the Housecarl.' Ralof grinned; he knew what Jon knew: Jarls were fickle and not to be trusted.

'In that case, Ralof, I have boon to ask of you.' He held out a letter, intended for Ysold. The thought of her reading this letter made Jon's heart quicken, but it would give her hope.

'A letter? Where to?' Ralof asked, curiously.

'My wife, in Rorikstead. Well, actually a small farm near the town, or village, of Rorikstead. I want to her to know where I am; if the Jarl should prove, difficult.' Jon got out. He needed to make sure this letter reached her and Ralof seemed to be a man of honour.

'Rorikstead? That's a ride of two weeks. On a horse. I have a war to fight.' He added.

'I know.' Jon agreed. 'That's why, I want you to have this.' He passed over a heavy bag of gold intended for his farm. He had earnt it as a mercenary for Ysold, and this was important to him. It fulfilled the intention in any case.

'You care about her, don't you?' It wasn't a question. Ralof was studying Jon carefully now. He came to a decision. Ralof took the gold. 'Aye, this letter will reach her, on my word as a Nord.' Jon grasped Ralof's arm and the rebel returned it. 'Now, it's time to meet the Jarl. Don't offend him; else this letter will never carry any weight.'

Jon nodded. 'I don't know if I'll ever see you again, but ride like the wind.'

'And speak like a viper, Jon of Solitude. Jarl's aren't forgiving men.' And with that he started walking to the stables.  
Jon turned and started forward past the first gate, over the second one, with a drawbridge this time, and up to the mighty, forty foot oak gate.  
The guards on duty were quick to stop him though; 'Oi! What do you think you're doing, huh?' The Nord guard had his hand on his sword and was trying to appear unintimidated by Jon's immense height.  
'Message from Riverwood. It calls for the Jarl's aid.' Jon told the guard.  
'Right, okay. Go up to Dragonsreach then. It's the palace.' He added and waved Jon through the open gates.  
**Jon reached the summit of the steps that led to Dragonsreach**. The city below was clear and clean, if a bit dusty. The sun was in the sky, making the well built wood of the houses and shops shine a little, as good wood does. Whiterun was obviously as prosperous as Riverwood had been. Even so, he noticed some strained faces as he walked through the city and he glimpsed a poorer side of Whiterun, through a gap as he moved past it.  
He returned his attention to the palace itself. A covered walkway led to the entrance of the tall oak and stone palace. It was also clean, elegant and well built. Jon thought of his farm, infinitely smaller, but just as special and sturdy. He pushed away the thought, and walked to the entrance.  
The guards frisked Jon, removing all weaponry he had, with consisted of a dagger and his new sword. Jon was sorry to see it go; it had cost him a lot of gold.  
He entered the palace nonetheless, and looked around in amazement. He wasn't easily impressed, but the long hall, light oak, with tiered steps ahead of him after an entrance hall that led to a massive feasting table and raised on a dais, on which sat the Jarl's throne, was impressive.  
He made his way up the hall, marvelling at the massively high, curved ceiling before coming to a halt, just before the steps of the dias by a Dark Elf in expensive leather armour, with silver fastenings and a silver belt. She held a well built steel longsword in her hand, levelled at Jon now.  
He held his ground and she challenged him; 'What are doing her? The Jarl isn't to be disturbed.'  
Jon grimaced, it looked like he would die to the Housecarl's blade. The Housecarl was the Jarl's personal bodyguard, one of the best Carl's, (similar to the Cyrodillic Knights but with a different title), in the Hold.  
'I have a message for the Jarl. About dragons.'  
The Housecarl sheathed her sword. She didn't look as shocked as Jon had expected. 'This way. The Jarl will want to here this.'  
They made their way to the throne, up the few steps where the Housecarl left Jon to stand next to the Jarl's throne, while he stood several feet from it.  
The Jarl himself was in an argument with his steward. The Lord of Whiterun was a tall Nord, well built, in his late thirties. He had blond hair, less than shoulder length, and a beard that was about a quarter of a foot in length. He looked handsome, with clear green eyes and wore an expensive tunic, with a gold belt buckle and cream coloured fur around the shoulders, which led down to a soft grey wool cloak. A silver sword hung at his side.  
'I will not leave my people to fend for themselves!' He thundered at his Steward, a balding Imperial.  
They were interrupted by his Housecarl. 'My Jarl, a messenger from Riverwood,' she told him respectfully. He held up a hand, silencing his Steward and turned his attention to Jon, his gaze staring into him, analysing him.  
'You know me?'

'No, my Jarl.' Jon replied, head lowered.  
'Jarl Balgruuf, called 'the Greater', of Whiterun. You don't know how I earnt the name, do you?'  
'No, my Jarl.' Jon replied respectfully.  
'I destroyed an entire rebel army, as a green boy, and captured their leader, Saervius White, my cousin. Ha! My father was the Great, I am the Greater.'  
'A mighty feat, my Jarl.' Jon answered, with careful courtesy.  
'Your message.' He demanded, suddenly, having obviously bored of telling tales to peasants.  
'Riverwood calls for aid. A dragon attacked Helgen.'

The Jarl was sceptical. 'A dragon? I've been hearing strange reports; this is true, by a dragon? How can I be certain that you are telling the truth?'

'Gerdur, of Riverwood sent me.'

'Ah, Gerdur. A fine woman; if she sent you, I will surely consider it.' He turned to his Steward and began to converse quietly with him. His Housecarl also joined in and Jon got the impression that they were trying to decide how best to fight a dragon.

'I was at Helgen.' Jon told the Jarl. The response was instant and surprising: the Jarl silenced them with a raise of his hand and leaned towards Jon.

'Your tale, quickly now!'

Jon recounted the attack, leaving out his imprisonment as it was probably not something the Jarl needed to hear. It only took several minutes to recount. At the end of it the Jarl looked thoughtful.

'Irileth, sent a detachment to Riverwood at once.' His Steward made to protest but he silenced him effortlessly, and looked back at Jon. 'You are an able warrior. I can see that. Come with me.'

Jon's stomach sunk: he was stuck in Whiterun politics already. He followed the Jarl as he led the way to a large room off of the main hall. It had desk in the middle and was filled with tools related to… _magic. _Jon sighed. He hated magic, as did any good Nord. It was a southern art, and had no place in the north. For what it mattered Jon noticed that the Jarl was of a similar opinion, and it was Jon's turn to size him up. The calluses on his hands, the strong arms and scuffed sheath of his sword, along with his dislike of magic, told Jon that whatever else Balgruuf was, he was a true Nord.

'Farengar. I've found you someone to help with your problem.' The Jarl called to a tall, lanky Nord, with a strange head. The top was wide, but narrowed it reached his chin. A little stubble was present and his big eyes were thoughtful. Jon felt foreboding. What was he part of now?

'This is…' The Jarl looked at Jon expectantly, and Jon reluctantly told the mage his name. You didn't argue with a Jarl after all.

'Yes, Jon of Solitude. He can recover that thing you wanted.' Balgruuf continued.

'The Dragonstone; he can recover it?' Farengar looked sceptical.

'Yes, he can.'

'My Jarl,' Jon interrupted. 'What can I recover?'

Farengar looked Jon over and began. 'You've heard of the Dragons War?'

'No.' Jon told Farengar.

'Right, well. The Dragon War was a war fought long ago between the Nords and the Dragons, led by Alduin, the World Eater. Although most of it is certainly myth, such as the presence of Alduin, who was probably just an exceptionally old dragon; there is a lot of it that was real. In any case this stone comes from the time, and it maps the positions of all the dragons places of death, their 'tombs'. We refer to them as 'dragon mounds'. If I had the stone, myself and my _contacts _would be able to plot the position of their births. We then send men over and kill them. Simple?'

'And I would like you to do this, Jon Solitude;' the Jarl informed Jon. 'I would be in your debt, and you could expect to be rewarded handsomely.' The Jarl looked at Jon, carefully, analysing him. Jon realised it wasn't a choice, merely a polite offer. He might as well take the offer.

'It would be my honour, my Jarl.' Jon told him.

'Good man! I understand that the path is dangerous, so here; take this.' He motioned to his Steward, who produced a sack of coin. Jon noticed that the course had been decided beforehand; the Jarl just needed the right man.

'Now, go to Bleak Falls Barrow, west of Riverwood and retrieve the Dragonstone. Talk to Farengar for more details. I shall await your return.' And with that Jarl Balgruuf turned and left the room, with his Housecarl and Steward following. It appeared that Jon's audience with the Jarl of Whiterun was over.


	10. Meeting Family

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

He looked out at the farm from horseback. It was of medium size, with a mill, some small fields and a cosy farmhouse in the off to a side. There was a small carriage, presumably for taking produce into Rorikstead, but the horse was gone. Ralof looked over and noticed that it was being pulled by a Nord woman. A plough was attached to it. There was a boy, of eight or nine near it, playing idly.

Ralof spurred his horse down the slight hill road that led to the farm from Rorikstead, a mile or two distant. As he got closer he noticed the woman more.

She had long, smooth brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail that fell down her back. She had a slim figure, with a big chest and nice legs, as Ralof saw from under her dress as she struggled with the horse. Her face was small, with clear blue eyes, similar to Jon's, Ralof recalled, but without the raw power. Her smooth skin was tanned, the sign of a peasant.

The boy was obviously Jon's son. He was tall, still loomed over by his mother, but he was clearly going to be a figure to reckon with later. His hair wasn't black like Jon's, rather a deep, dark brown; a mix of both parents. He had blue eyes (how could he not with parents that shared the same colour), but in Jon's shade: bright with silver flecks. His face was his mothers though, clearly he was going to be handsome, but he was saved from the fate of _pretty_ by the features of his father, such as Jon's brow and mouth. He was running around his mother playfully.

The woman, who must have been Ysold, looked up as Ralof approached, still on horseback. She reached for a yew bow by her side and the rebel realised that he must cut an imposing figure, with a dagger at his side and a greatsword, visibly hanging by his horse's saddlebags on the left side. On right hung a bow, with a set of steel arrows, all courtesy of Jon. He was also wearing jerkin and mail, which he had had repaired at the local blacksmith in Rorikstead before coming here. He had left his Stormcloak blue wrapping in his saddlebags, with his other clothes and provisions. On his legs were fur boots, and on his arms gleamed steel bracers, lined with dark fur.

He dismounted quickly, trying to remove the negative image, his blond hair blowing in his face.

'Are you Ysold, wife of Jon Solitude?' He called, as he approached.

'Aye.' Her voice was pleasant, not amazing, but soft. He didn't drop the bow though. 'Who are you?'

'A friend of your husbands.' Ralof supposed that was true. He had only known him for a month, but they had got on well in that time. 'I have a letter for you.'

'From Jon?' A look of hope flashed across her pretty face, to be replaced by suspicion.'

'I didn't open it, but I assume Jon left you a message in it.' Ralof knew Jon well enough to realise that there was probably a hidden sign in the message to identify it. Ralof came up to her and handed it over. She gave the bow to her son, who was too small to carry it properly and began to read quickly, a rare skill for a farmer. Ralof himself could only barely read. Ralof noticed the boy stealing glances at his dagger, and more specifically, his greatsword; hanging from his nearby horse.

'Here boy.' Ralof motioned. 'Would you like to hold a greatsword?'

The boy looked hesitant, but started forward.

'Alsfur. Stay here.' Ysold told her son, before looking at Ralof. She looking happy. 'You're right. It was from Jon. He says he's in Skyrim. Where about, traveller?'

'Please call me Ralof;' he told her. 'I carried this letter from Whiterun.'

'Thank you. Please call me Ysold, of Rorikstead. You said you're a friend of Jon's?'

'Yes, that's right. We fought a few battles together and I accompanied him to Whiterun.' Ralof told her. A few battles was a bit of an over exaggeration, but still.

'You fought in the Dragon Blades?' She asked.

'No, our friendship is more recent than that.'

She nodded, thoughtful. The strain on her face had resided a little bit. 'Will you be a guest under my roof?' She asked Ralof politely.

'I couldn't. I have a room in the inn up in Rorikstead.' Ralof declined.

She nodded, impressed that he hadn't accepted the offer in the absence of her husband, who was still obviously alive. 'Give my regards to Mralki and Erik.'

'I will.' Ralof noticed Alsfur still looking at his weapons. He looked at Ysold, who nodded. 'Alsfur, would you like to see my weapons?'

With the acceptance of this stranger by his mother he gained confidence and nodded vigorously.

'Come here then.' He led the boy to his weapons, and began to show him the greatsword. As the boy struggled to lift it Ralof looked around at the farm. He could sympathise with Jon's plight now, especially with a wife like that, he mused. No! Ralof wasn't a backstabber and certainly not a rapist. In any case, Ysold was far too loyal to Jon. He pushed the idea firmly to the back of mind and resolved to leave before he did anything stupid. He turned his attention Alsfur, and helped the boy try out his helmet.


	11. The Word Wall

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

It was big wall, Ulfric decided. And special. Across it was runed glyphs of the dragon tongue. Ulfric hadn't seen any in years, but the sight of them brought up familiar memories.

They were in Bleak Falls Barrow. Jon had asked for Ulfric to accompany him and had promised him a share of the Jarl's reward. It was past time he got back to Windhelm and buying a horse would be much quickly than walking. They had ridden here, using Jon's gold from the Jarl, and he could have left but Ulfric was bound to help the brother Nord achieve his goal, and so he had accompanied him to this Talos-forsaken place. But the wall; the wall changed everything.

Jon was coming closer to it, cautiously, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 'Are those… draconic runes?'

Ulfric stepped closer, and he recognised several of them. 'Yes, my friend. What you see there is the ancient language of the dragons. While I trained with the Greybeards, they told me of walls like this in Skyrim, containing words from the draconic language. See, this one says; "Here lies The Guardian, keeper of the Dragonstone and a Force of eternal rage and darkness. It appears the stone is nearby.'

'You can read it?' Jon asked, curiously, more interested in Ulfric's display of his knowledge of the draconic language than his goal. Ulfric could tell he was impressed.

'Yes, I can read it, but I can't speak it that well.' He told Jon, answering the unsaid question. 'It is a much harder skill, to give voice to a tongue that powerful. I do have a good knowledge, and should a dragon land right here I would be able to make some kind of communication, but still… it is far from perfect.' Ulfric admitted.

'I see. These runes, they…' Jon touched one of the runes as he said this and was struck. He stepped backwards dazed. Ulfric looked at the rune; it was glowing white hot. As he looked, it spread to all of them. And then a crunch. And another. And another.

'By Talos!' He turned, to find the coffins on the walls surrounding the massive chamber were opening to reveal…

'Draugr: undead Nords. Kinsman, stay close.' The dead advanced and Ulfric drew his war axe, readying it by his side. He heard the scrape of steel; Jon had drawn his sword. Then an answering rasp, twenty times larger. The Draugr had drawn their swords.

'We need to go!' Jon shouted at Ulfric. 'Now!'

'We can take them!'

'No, there are at least twenty. And we have no position to defend from. I'll get the stone; go!' Jon grabbed the stone two feet wide, placed on a central altar and slipped it in a satchel he had brought to hold it earlier. The dead advanced and he pulled at Ulfric.

But the tightness was building in Ulfric's throat. Building, squeezing. He needed to let it go, and besides it was the only way to escape. He opened his mouth;

'Vey fin paal.' _Cut my enemies. _A whiplash sound cracked the air and six Draugr fell, cut deeply. Some lost arms or heads, but Ulfric sagged. His throat was blistered (a side effect of using the thu'um) and he felt tired, another effect. He raised himself up and staggered up the steps to the hidden exit Jon had been told about.

Jon himself hacked at the undead, who had been thrown off by Ulfric's display of the thu'um. He blocked the blow of one then and kicked it down the steps, into its fellows. He raced after Ulfric, who was recovering his energy and had started running for the exit.

They reached the top and stopped. A long passage ending in a sheer wall, and the Draugr were advancing. Ulfric rushed forward and started looking for the handhold; the secret switch.

'What are you doing?' Jon asked, readying his sword for the coming Draugr. Ulfric didn't answer, instead he kept looking. The Draugr were advancing, they had reached the top of the steps and they were advancing down the narrow passage.

Ulfric fumbled, found something, pulled. The door rumbled open, slowly. Ulfric pushed Jon under the widening gap and rushed out himself. The Draugr had began to crawl under the stone, but Ulfric pulled out his war axe and cut the rope that was pulling up the door on their side. It smashed down, crushing one of the Draugr's head into dusk and dead skin.

Ulfric leaned heavily against the wall, safe. Jon slumped to the ground.

'You have the stone?' Ulfric asked wearily.

'Aye. Here.' He showed him it. Ulfric barely glanced at it. 'Let's go then.' He stood up; _a true Nord didn't lie down while a fellow Hold needed help, especially one that would later claim for me as High King,_ Ulfric reasoned, and stumbled out of the doorway.

'Now, where did we leave the horses again?'


	12. Dragonborn Rising

**Jon, of Solitude **

Jon of Solitude entered Dragonsreach and strode to Farengar Secret-Fire's quarters. The mage was talking to a hooded figure in leather armour and brown cloak. They both looked up as Jon entered and the hooded figure cut he mage off and left without another word. Farengar turned to Jon.

'I see you've recovered the stone. You are a cut above the men the Jarl normally sends me. Here, give the stone here.' Jon passed the mage the Dragonstone and he examined it, resting it on the table.

'Ah, now I see.' He motioned to Jon, who came over. 'See this here. This is a dragon burial-' Farengar was cut off by Housecarl Irileth, who rushed into the room.

'Farengar! A dragon has been spotted. The Jarl requests your presence.' She noticed Jon. 'And you too, traveller.'

Jon followed the Housecarl as they made their way up some steps off to the side of the Jarl's throne and up into large war room. A map dominated the centre. Jarl Balgruuf stood beside it.

'Good, Farengar. And you, Jon Solitude.' He nodded; 'Good. Here messenger, tell them what you told me.'

The guard, a thin Nord bowed his head to the Jarl. 'My Jarl. I saw a dragon at the Western Watchtower, it swept overhead and attacked. I took a horse and rode here as fast as I could. It was massive and it breathes fire! My fellows were fighting it last I saw.' He looked uncomfortable.

'You are a good man. We needed this news.' He clapped the Nord on the shoulder. 'Irileth, take a contingent of ten men. You, Solitude. I have another boom.'

'My Jarl, I am at your service.' Jon replied respectfully.

'You are the only one who has seen a dragon. That small experience may be useful. If you survive, I will reward you greatly. Will you join Irileth in her attack on the dragon?'

_A dragon! I could die, without Ysold, in a pit somewhere out in Whiterun. And I'm so close now_. Jon thought frantically; _but then what Nord would I be? Damn honour, _he cursed. Instead he said;

'My sword is ready.'

'As it will need to be. Go, and good luck.'

Jon raced out of the room, after Irileth out of the palace, and to the killing ground.

**The earth was scorched. The tower had taken a battering, but no dragon, **Jon observed.He was on horseback, with the other guards. He looked around, and slide his sword from his sheath. His throat began to tighten, as it did before a battle. It was getting tighter, and it beginning to make his mouth hot. _In Talos._ Jon had never felt that before. Suddenly it seared his throat and Jon instinctively dove off his horse as a massive, scaly dragon swooped down taking three of the guards with it barely missing him. Jon pushed himself off the ground, winded, trying to find his sword. It had fallen a few feet away.

Irileth was organising the panicked guards as it shot fire down, red hot and scorching the guards in their mail. They scattered, burning and screaming, drawing bows, swords and axes.

'Bring it down!' Irileth screamed at them. Arrows whizzed into the air and struck the dragon, bouncing off. It swept down, knocking men off their horses. The guards from the tower, eight of them still left, came out of the tower with bows. The air was filled with arrows and fire as the dragon tore up horses and guards alike. Blood began to soak the ground. Arrows bounced off the dragons hide and fell to the earth.

Jon reached his sword as the dragon landed, and slammed Irileth from her horse. Jon didn't think, the tightness was building and he ran at the dragon. It was next to a rocky outcrop and Jon aimed for it. As Irileth was covered by the dragon, and it opened it jaws for the kill, he leapt.

Jon bounced off the rock, and swung down his sword, slamming it into the dragon's skull. It ricocheted, but not before cutting deep. The dragon screamed and its blood filled Jon's mouth as he fell onto the dragon's head and rolled, landing heavily on the ground. He spluttered out the blood, swallowing some and it burned his mouth and he started coughed violently. The dragon shook its head, more blood raining down. It levelled with Jon, its red eyes burning with malice. It opened its jaws, and the tightness reached a hereto unpeaked level. An image flashed across his mind, a word. He opened his mouth and shouted, a blast of air and power, far more precise than Ulfric's had ever been.

'FUS!' The force, blue and lined with silver, like Jon's eyes, struck the dragon. It travelled up into its skull and burst it in an explosive blast of blood and bone. Jon rolled, grabbing Irileth as the dragon fell. It smashed to the ground, scales shattering and dust was wept up, in a choking cloud.

Jon struggled to his feet as the dragon began to disintegrate, its scales turning into a golden surge of energy that rippled through him, filling his limbs. Words flashed before his eyes, time slowed and he felt… awake. More than he ever had. It filled him, draining the dragon of its strength.

It stopped and he rose, feeling as if he had just slept for hours, yet panting heavily.

'Dragonborn. It can't be.' Jon of Solitude turned to see the surviving guards all surrounding him. Irileth was off to a side, eyeing him warily. 'You're the Dragonborn.'

It struck Jon. He remembered. In the old stories the Dragonborn were a race of men that could harness the strength of a dragon and speak its powerful tongue. They were ancient heroes and hunted the dragons mercilessly, but then the dragons had wanted to enslave mankind. _Could I be?_ Jon thought. It would be life-changing. He could be a hero. He had only ever wanted a name, and he had one in Jon of Solitude. Once he had planned great adventures, but when he met Ysold, it didn't matter. Back then he had been a boy, fresh from Solitude. But now…

'Shout. You have the power. Do it,' the guards urged. Jon remembered words, many now, all swimming in his consciousness. He chose the one he had used against the dragon.

'Fus.' A blast of blue force, lined with silver swept from his mouth, pure and clear. The guards were all staggered.

'It's true. You are Dragonborn. You are.' The guard knelt. The others followed, while Irileth tried to stop them, but they were all Nords; they weren't listening. Jon was surrounded by ten guards, heads bowed, next to the broken skeleton of a dragon, as a breeze blew away the fires.


	13. Arise, Thane of Whiterun

**Thanks to DoctorDovah for the alert-thing. I'd love more reviews, so if any one reads this, can you just put down a short word such as 'great' or 'crap'. It'd make my day. Ok, in this chapter you're going to learn more about way the Thane system _really_ works. Enjoy (and review!) **

**Jon, of Solitude **

He strode into Dragonsreach with the remains of the detachment behind him. He felt strong, and good. His body hummed with energy and he practically bounded ahead of the weary guards.

He knelt before the throne, and Balgruuf asked him to rise.

'What happened? Is it dead?'

'Yes, my Jarl. I killed it.' Murmurs spread throughout the hall and Jon only just realised that a dozen Carls and Thanes attended the Jarl.

'This is incredible. You killed it?' He looked at the other guards who nodded their heads. Even Irileth let out a curt nod. 'A dragonslayer.' He mused. He lapsed into silence before calling over his Steward, Proventus, and one of the more prominent Thanes. They talked carefully before Balgruuf turned back to Jon.

'You have done me many great services. You have proven yourself to be loyal, astute and capable. I would be honoured if you would become…'

_A Carl. It would make him a type of noble. _

_A landowner. The Jarl had been known to grant lands to heroes. _

'… a Thane.' Jon's heart missed a beat. A Thane was a Lord. They owned land, men and a longhall. They looked after parts of the Jarl's land, and had a place at court. When war came the Jarl rose them, and they gave him their men to fuel his armies. They each owned a good twenty miles of land, but the number of Jarls in a Hold varied, according to size. They were essentially mini-Jarls, in service to the Jarl. There were twenty of so on a Hold as big as Whiterun, which ranged at about 500 miles from east to west. Most of all, the title was hereditary, as was the Jarl's own. Jon's son would be Thane. He was astounded.

'I, Balgruuf, of House Windblade, the first of my name, Jarl of Whiterun, Lord of Whiterun Hold, Holder of the Fields, Marshal of the Plains Armies, called the Greater, hereby declare you a Thane of Whiterun. Kneel.' _(The House Windblade bit is essentially their battle name. It serves as their surname, but it is only used occasionally. Their armies (Plains Armies for example) are all called something different. In war they can temporarily pass this title to anyone (normally a Thane or Carl) to command their armies in their stead.) _

Jon was already doing so; instead he sunk his head to confirm the order. Balgruuf rose, and drew his sword, and he dubbed Jon on either shoulder as was traditional for both Thanes, and Carls.

'Rise now, Thane Jon of Whiterun, the 'Dragonslayer'. Tell me, Thane Jon, what happened when you killed the dragon?'

'A strange energy came from it, into me. I… _absorbed_ it.' Jon said carefully, not wishing to arrogantly assume he was the legendary Dragonborn.

'And this happened when the dragon-' Balgruuf was cut off as a great shout rocked the hall. It shook, and many of the Thanes and Carls fell over. Jon heard a voice. It called… _Dovahkiin. _It meant Dragonborn, Jon knew instinctively. The sound stopped and Jon looked at Balgruuf.

He look white, but managed to say; 'You must be Dragonborn. Those were the Greybeards, and if what you told me was true… Do you know who they are?' He asked.

Jon knew. Every child knew. They were the masters of the voice, and the thu'um, and the traditional masters of the Dragonborn.

'I trained with them for a time, but I was unsuccessful.' Balgruuf told Jon. 'If they've called you, you must go. Here, take this.' His Steward handed the Jarl a small bronze badge with the horse of Whiterun in the middle, in gold. It was pin. 'A symbol of office.' Balgruuf continued. 'Wear it and your influence in my Hold will grow massively, as you are now a Thane. When you return, _if _you return, we shall talk about which land I am to grant you. Now go, and seek out the Greybeards.'

Jon turned, in a daze and left the throne room.


	14. A Military Mind

**Back to Tullius and his hopefully fairly satisfactory politics. Still don't have anything on George R.R. Martin, who has been a massive inspiration in this series with Game of Thrones. Hope you enjoy it. **

**Imperial General Tullius **

Imperial General Tullius crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Folded his arms, unfolded them. He looked out the window, where the sun was steadily getting lower. He sighed and returned his attention to the council. They were sat around a long table. Tullius sat on Elisif's right, while Falk Firebeard, her Steward, sat on her left. Thane Erikur sat next to him, making his voice well known, while his wife Bryling studies the wooden table. The other members at the table were other Thanes, and a few Carls were present, mainly tasked with the defence of the young Jarl.

Elisif sat at the head, looking slightly unsure, having an almost constant pouring of words shoved into her pretty ears. Tullius just sat, listening, and watching.

'And that concludes the end of the plumbing.' Firebeard finished. 'Now, we have received,' he pulled out a letter from under his stack of papers; 'a report stating the strength and intentions of the 'New Stormcloaks.'

At this Tullius perked up his ears. The New Stormcloaks were a militia who supported Ulfric Stormcloak, and recently their work had had some damaging affects on morale, but as of yet they hadn't asked Tullius to intervene.

'They have continued underground activities, rallying a quarter of the population to their cause and have recently began work in making their message more prominent.'

'How so?' Tullius asked, abruptly. He looked at Falk intently, his hand pressed to his lips in an expression of total focus.

'Well, err, General, they have began to… hang bodies of Imperialists from various houses.'

'How are they doing this?'

'The guard is inept, lazy, why should we care?'

'We should care, Falk, because if we can at least convey the impression of a stable regime, despite any perceived unfairness, we would not be in a position of…' he chose his words carefully; the Nords were prickly with their honour; 'weakness.' He finished.

'And how do you presume to do this, General?' Erikur interposed.

'Very simply: increase military presence on the streets.'

'And they would still be outwitted by the Stormcloaks.'

'You mistake it, Thane. First, they are not Stormcloaks; merely discontented citizens. Two; the presence of the guards would display several things you, in your wisdom, have overlooked. Posting these guards would show a response to the situation. Their presence, despite their apparent incapability's as according to the Steward,' he nodded at Falk; 'would provide the reassurance of those trained to uphold law, which is faltering. It would also discourage the 'Stormcloaks', Thane Erikur who, as I said earlier are only citizens, and like every other citizen, they still believe in the overawing power of the sword, and most importantly, a uniform. I assume they have uniforms, Steward?'

'They are given mail, and the colours of Solitude.' He replied sullenly, reacting to the General's tone.

'Then it will work. My… Jarl.' He turned his head to Elisif, who looked surprised at being addressed. Tullius nodded, discreetly.

She looked at him, and began to open her mouth, but Falk Firebeard interrupted. Tullius shot him an icy stare, and he relented, glaring at the General. With the lack of opposition she thought briefly, and nodded her head. 'It sounds worthy, General.'

'For that, I am gracious, my Jarl.' Tullius inclined his head. 'If we may, I think we should turn our attentions to that of the war.'

Elisif answered. 'That would seem appropriate. What did you wish to bring to our- my attention.' Falk blanched, while Erikur noticed what was happening and tried to intervene. He was cut off, as Tullius deliberately kept addressing her solely. He fell back, fuming, his face turning red. He turned to Bryling and began to talk to her Elisif looked at him.

'Erikur, the General is informing us on the war effort. I think, as you own a business that is vulnerable to the rebel armies, you might be listening closely.' She scolded, surprisingly well.

'Of course, my Jarl. I hold the General's opinion in the highest regard naturally.' He sat back.

Tullius concluded his report by talking about the enemy movements and the reinforcements that have been sent from the Imperial City. That raised some murmuring and cheers from the Nords around the table, as Tullius hoped it would. They would leave with thoughts of military power and the Emperor's commitment to the war, just as he had planned.

He stood and left after Jarl Elisif took her leave and from there walked back to Castle Dour. He went into his chamber and sat at his study desk. He looked over the small map of the surrounding Holds. He took a quill and dipped in some ink. He had a letter to write to Balgruuf, of Whiterun.


	15. Talk For The Road

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**Ulfric waited for Jon.** **He** **wasn't sure why, as it was time he returned to** Windhelm to continue the war, but he did. The sun was out, but cold, it's warmth not quite breaking through to his pale skin. He waited, along the road, outside Whiterun. He considered going in and obtaining Balgruuf's allegiance in the war, but he was still unsure as to how much hold the Imperial dogs held in this Hold.

Ulfric was disturbed by the Greybeards thu'um. He hadn't heard it in many years, and he still looked up nervously after it was an hour gone. However, he was able to understand it. When Jon did finally come down the road he didn't look surprised when Ulfric melted up next to him, on his horse. Instead he looked strange, like he had just solved the conundrum to some crucial problem. They rode in silence for a while, before Jon turned to Ulfric, and asked;

'What do you know of the Dragonborn?'

**Two days later, and Ulfric was still coming to grips with Jon's revelation. **He needed to hit something he decided. He looked at Jon, who was taking a swig of water. At his side hung a sword.

'You can use that?' Ulfric asked, indicating the sword.

'When I need to.' Jon told him. Ulfric liked the total disregard for rank that Jon held, at least in his own case. It made him honest, and the closest thing to a true friend he'd had in years.

Ulfric halted his horse and led it a little way into the forest that bordered the road, and into a clearing.

'Try me,' he told Jon, pulling out a sword from the saddlebags. He preferred an axe, but he had been trained to use sword and shield as heir to Eastmarch and he also understood why he needed to know it, and so he trained regularly with it.

Jon slid off his horse and pulled out his own sword, before realising the danger.

'This is madness. We could kill each other.'

Ulfric looked down at his own blade, realising the truth of it. 'You have it right, Jon. But we will fight, eventually.' He couldn't tell whether Jon looked relieved or not.

**That night that they made camp Ulfric looked for two suitable sticks. **He found them by the river bank and when he was satisfied that they held strong on impact,he began to shape them with his dagger into two crude swords. When he was done he returned to their camp threw one of them to Jon, who caught it, barely.

'Come. Now we fight.' Ulfric advanced on Jon, who was still coming to terms with the sudden attack. The Jarl brought his stick over his head and down. Jon caught it, and swung his at Ulfric's leg, but the Jarl easily dodged it, before catching Jon on his undefended shoulder. The other Nord let out a little cry of pain.

'You need to keep up a defence even when you're on the attack!' He called. Jon just responded by gritting his teeth and launching himself at Ulfric, who dodged, kicking up dust from the clearing, before quickly swinging back his head as Jon performed a neat trick with his stick. Ulfric stepped back and grinned. _This might be more fun than I thought. _

The Jarl circled Jon before swinging his stick, countering the retaliation and sliding, slamming his stick against Jon's leg and then bringing it up to slam against the other Nord's face.

Jon recovered quickly, Ulfric gave him that, but fear flashed in his eyes as he realised that Ulfric had a greater grasp of swordplay than him. He lunged Ulfric, he neatly blocked and swung his stick into Jon's stomach. Ulfric left Jon there and walked back to the horses. When Jon joined him a few minutes later he said;

'Pride will mend, but your bones won't. We will practice again later.' Ulfric fell asleep without another word, wrapped in his heavy fur cloak.

**They spent the weeks travelling to Ivarstead training. **Ulfric was only too happy to see another Nord gain the power of the thu'um, not to mention if this Nord was indeed the Dragonborn. He offered his help spontaneously, but some part of him was hoping that one day Jon's gratitude might lead him to Windhelm and the Stormcloak cause.

On the days that they travelled to the pilgrim town of Ivarstead, situated at the base of the Throat of the World where the legendary Greybeards lived, Ulfric continued to teach Jon swordplay, as much a way of passing time and keeping their skills honed as it was, Ulfric sensed, a valuable lesson for Jon, whose skills were not quite a match for Ulfric's own, something that hurt the other Nord's pride immensely. He also made him familiar with an axe, and found he was a decent bow, but still _decent_ wasn't good enough, and so he taught Jon that too.

In the evenings they talked, of some story or lore. Often Ulfric talked about history, something he quickly realised that Jon was lacking, as he had been born a peasant. He could read and write, surprisingly, and the Jarl told the other Nord if he ever came to Windhelm, he would have full use of the extensive library there.

**But by night they practiced the thu'um. **

Ulfric was astounded by Jon's progress. Words that took him weeks or months to master took Jon merely a day. Occasionally his jealousy would get the best of him, and Ulfric would sulk for a few hours. The next day he became amiable again, and he became determined to teach Jon as much as possible again. And in that time Ulfric began to regard Jon as something of a friend. Certainly Jon regarded him as one and Ulfric found that he enjoyed the other Nord's company. Jon proved to have a financial mind, another surprise, and he seemed quite competent in running an estate, as Ulfric discovered when Jon caught him murmuring to himself about the state of Windhelm in his absence.

To be fair Ulfric had never considered himself a good manager of Eastmarch. He wasn't bad, he told himself, but his mind was far more military orientated, and he found himself valuing Jon's opinion as much as did Galmar's or Jorleif's. _He might be a true Nord yet, _Ulfric wondered amused, as he watched Jon struggle to hit the targets he had placed with a bow.

**The journey took about three weeks. **A few days before they reached Ivarstead, where they would part ways, Jon asked Ulfric the question he knew he would eventually. Everyone did.

'Why do you fight?' He asked, as he poked at the flames in their campfire.

'Ulfric leaned back. 'It's simple, my friend. Only those with a clouded mind find anything to object to. I fight because I must.'

'You must?'

'Yes,' Ulfric nodded. 'When I served in the Legions I was like the Imperials, corrupt and slavish. But as I fought, and we were defeated at every turn, I realised what the Empire was. It was weak. With the Septims in control, it was great; Talos' Empire, his legacy. Now, I don't know what it is. Why should we fight for an Empire too weak to defend us? We are better off without them; keep Skyrim for the Nords, and leave the rest of Tamriel to the Imperials.' He turned over.

'What about the Thalmor?'

Ulfric turned back to Jon. The boy was stubborn, Ulfric reflected. 'I told you the story of Ysgramor. He beat the elves, why can't we?'

'He was a hero.'

'I can be a hero.' Ulfric told Jon. 'I control the thu'um and I have the iron will needed to dominate Skyrim. Under me it would be strong.'

'Fine, but the elves have magic.' Jon said.

Ulfric was undaunted. 'What is magic compared to good steel and bravery unmatched?'

'You can still be killed Ulfric, despite this god-like reputation you've armoured yourself in.' Jon said quietly.

Ulfric glared at Jon. His anger was building, so instead he said; 'I am no god. I am a true Nord, and it's time you best started acting like one, _Thane _Jon of Whiterun. I am the Jarl, and if you want to survive the east of Skyrim, you best start learning what it means.'

Jon looked pained; it was obviously not his intention to anger Ulfric, but the Jarl was not going to relent so early, or at all. They slept in silence.

**It was midday when Jon finally turned to Ulfric. **

'My Jarl, it wasn't my place to challenge your word.'

Ulfric turned. He had been debating his actions last night and he had decided that he acted unjustly. It had been an accurate, if painful truth if Ulfric was honest. It had touched his pride. 'No, it was my fault. You were right to question me, as Galmar does. Without true counsel I am misguided, and the war will fail. It was not your fault.' He turned away. 'We will stop here.'

'Why?' Jon looked puzzled.

'You still haven't managed to get a hit on me yet.' Ulfric grinned, as he pulled out the sticks. Jon returned it.


	16. 7,000 Steps Above Ivarstead

**Ok, before I get started I just need to mention a couple of things. Firstly, I've changed Ivarstead a bit. Secondly, and most importantly, thanks to krabbizzle for the alert thing, but the most thanks goes to Anoneemouse, who wrote a review! I was debating as to whether I should actually do this chapter, and I eventually decided that the name I had for it (I thought) was so cool that I needed to do it. See how I chose my chapters; plot importance- NO. Cool name- HELL YEAH!**

**Anoneemouse, this is for you… **

**Thane Jon, of Whiterun **

**He looked up at the mountain. **The Throat of the World was massive, the largest mountain in Skyrim. At its lofty peak, clouds circled. It was early morning and sunlight beat at Jon's face. A chilly wind pulled at his hair, blowing at his lean, long face. His cloak ruffled, as he turned and strode back to Vilemyr Inn, where he had been staying for the last few days.

He and Ulfric had arrived at Ivarstead three days ago. Ulfric had departed almost immediately, with just enough time to big Jon good luck, and promise him welcome should he ever come to Windhelm. They embraced, almost like a father and son, and Ulfric left; riding quickly for Windhelm and his rebellion.

Jon walked down the road leading to the 7,000 steps that led up to High Hrothgar, the Greybeard's fabled monastery. He passed the mill and walked into the small village of Ivarstead. It consisted of a few houses, a general goods store, a mill and a small farm. Mostly, pilgrims passed through, heading for the 7,000 steps and this was how it made its income.

The Thane entered the inn, which was pretty much empty this early in the morning. He sat by the bar where Wilhelm was working, cleaning it.

'Ah, Thane Jon! Can I get you a drink?' As Balgruuf had promised, his title had elevated him immensely, even in The Rift.

'I'm going to go up the steps today, Wilhelm.' He told the barman.

'You said that yesterday, and the day before.' Wilhelm said as he mopped the bar and pulled up an ale for Jon. Jon passed along money, which the barkeeper caught deftly. The Thane took a long swig of the ale, before turning his attention back to the steps.

'How long do they take to climb again?' Jon asked.

'All the way to High Hrothgar? 'Bout three days.' He resumed mopping.

Jon mused on the new information. _Three days. It's a long time, but I have to do it._ 'In that case Wilhelm, thanks for the ale and company. I'm heading up.

'What? I didn't think you were going to go, Thane.

Jon collected his equipment, donned heavy furs and left the inn.

'You'll take care of my horse, Wilhelm?

'Well, yes, but…' The barman spluttered.

'It's been fun.' Jon walked out of the bar and breathed in the fresh air. At his side hung his sword and dagger; he had been warned of wolves, with a heavy pack weighed on his back. He strode off, intending to make the most of the day before night crept in.

**The steps started at the bottom of the mountain, and the end of the road. **Jon looked up at them and without hesitation mounted the first one. _One step closer to destiny, Jon. _He continued climbing, until he reached the first way-stone. Jon had no interest in these, but others did. A hunter was mediating in front of it. Jon was one hundred steps up, and a chill was beginning to bite into his fur.

'Hello!' Jon called.

The hunter turned. 'Hello, my friend. Come to mediate?

'I never did have much use for the gods.

'These aren't the gods, but to each their own. I come here for another reason as well, kinsmen.' He grinned. 'Game. It's good up here, so I fulfil two needs.

'Have you ever been up to the Hrothgar?' Jon asked, not interested in a long talk.

'No, they wouldn't let me in, so why bother.' He studied Jon's face, before asking'you?

'Aye, I'm heading up.

'Don't expect much, kinsman.' He turned back to his mediating and Jon took his leave.

**2,121 steps. **Night was crawling in. Jon was felt cold sweat on his brow, and his cloak whipped noisily behind him. The wind had picked up and Jon was beginning to feel its chill. He decided to camp down for the night, and he struggled to assemble his tent as the snow fell. It took thirty minutes, by which time Jon was exhausted and he slumped into it, the blizzard forgotten.

**3,458 steps. **Jon trudged up the steps, as they levelled out to reveal the fifth marker. Another pilgrim was knelt beside it and Jon slumped down next to her. They shared a lunch, relishing in human company before Jon continued on his way, his limbs numb with cold.

**4,170 steps. **Jon lay awake inside his tent. The wind had picked up again, and if he went outside, he couldn't see ten feet in front of him. Howling came from nearby. _Wolves. _Jon thought. He had his dagger by his side, ready; he hadn't bothered attempting to sleep. It was a futile gesture, with the wind and the threat of the wolves, so Jon had just lay in his tent, waiting for morning…

**4, 700** **steps. **Jon was exhausted. The cold wore him down as the steps sapped his steps. The storm had only gotten worse, and he was struggling to stay on his feet. And then they attacked.

The wolves leapt out of the caves and outcrops surrounding Jon. He only had time to process snarling teeth before one leapt on him. Normally Jon's strength would have made it easy to throw a wolf off, but he was weak. It tried to bite down while its pack circled Jon. The will to survive restarted and he threw it off, managing to unsheathe his dagger as it ran at him. He slashed, catching hold of its fur and dragging it down, burying his dagger into its skull. The rest of the pack leapt and Jon rolled, clumsily, before another leapt at him, like the first.

Jon was disorientated and he lost his dagger as he dodged, its claws catching his back and ripping through his furs. Another wolf seized the chance and clamped its teeth around Jon's arm. He let out a cry and drew his sword, or tried to. The ice had frozen the hilt to the sheath. Jon pulled, and turned to avoid another wolf. He swung round his arm and, with a mighty effort, brung down the wolf on the ground. It let out a whine and let go. Blood dripped onto the snow from Jon's arm and he tugged at his sword.

They circled him, and he tried to get out of it before one rammed into his stomach. He fell and kicked its head with his heavy boot. His dagger was next to him and he grabbed it, launching it into the wolf's eye. It fell and more blood sunk into the snow, which it ate greedily. The mountain needed its blood price, but Jon was determined he wouldn't be part of it.

With a crack, a scrape and an explosion of ice his sword came free and cut at the wolves. Two fell, but five remained and they leapt at the same time. One leapt on his back and he threw it over, but not before it ripped deep gashes into his neck. Blood trickled down his back and another dragged him forward, using a hold on his furs. Jon lashed out, smashing it in the face. His strength was far greater than he had anticipated, and the wolf's head crunched in.

Jon was shocked, as were the rest of the pack and they fled, having decided this prey wasn't worth it. Jon just mounted the next steps.

**6,000 steps. **Nearly there. He walked through the night, the blizzard tearing at his skin.

**6,500 steps. **He could see the monastery, stark against the cold.

**6,900 steps. **High Hrothgar was big, not tall, but imposing. It was made all of stone. Windows could be seen, but they were thick and tough.

**7,000 steps. **Jon pushed open a bronze door, and the storm stopped suddenly. It was cold, but still. He walked through a short corridor that led to a main hall. Four figures in grey robes were arrayed in circle in the middle of the hall. One stood, tall and lean. He turned and spoke through his great beard. Jon stepped forward.

'We have waited, Dovahkiin.'


	17. The Return of the Jarl

**Not much to say now, but here's an Ulfric chapter. Hope it's half decent! I've changed the Syormcloak banner a bit by the way; it's not an error.**

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, Lord of Eastmarch, Warden of the East, **Marshal of the Old Armies and Heir to the Throne of Ysgramor entered Windhelm three months after his escape from the headsman's axe. He rode at the head of an honour guard, a group of Stormcloak scouts that he came across a few miles from Windhelm. It was a clear day, cold but crisp and the great granite city of Windhelm was straight in front of him.

He rode up the long bridge, a mile long and fortified to defend against attack. It wasn't needed as much as it used to be, as the Jarls didn't fight to the extent as they used to, but it was a good defence against any Imperials.

Ulfric passed through the massive bronze gates, through the 15 feet thick stone walls, and into the main square of Windhelm. When the smallfolk realised who he was cheers went up, people cried his name and he rode proudly into the courtyard of the massive keep called the Palace of Kings.

He dismounted in the courtyard, and with the guards at his back, he strode into the main keep and up the long hall, which housed the legendary Throne of Ysgramor.

Ysgramor was the first leader of men. He led them into Skyrim, defeated the elves and established Windhelm as the first city. And his throne was big. A long, wide line of carpet, about 20 feet across, led to the steps of the throne, cut about 5 feet away. Raised above everything else by several feet was the throne, strong and made of solid stone; it looked as if it was built for large men. It had solid, but strangely graceful, if blocky, armrests and the back-rest reached up about 15 feet. In the middle of the back, a shield was carved of stone with two swords crossed behind it, stressing Eastmarch's military nature. The shield was supposedly a likeness of the shield Ysgramor used in battle. It was all stone, but the seat and the 'throne part' of the back was hatched, to lend a comfort to the stone, which it lacked, Ulfric could say confidently. Ancient Nordic designs also adorned the armrests. Ulfric's predecessors had put the colours of Windhelm on it, black and silver. These were put on the seat, leading down the shape of the throne to meet the edge of the start of the steps, that led up to the dias, about 4 feet from throne. Two braziers were raised, incorporated into the stone, standing several feet from the throne on either side.

Ulfric gazed at it before turning his attention to the war room, off the left of the throne. He strode in, taking in the map, weapons racks, and Galmar Stone-Fist, his Housecarl.

Galmar was old, but hardy. He was about fifty, with a grey beard and grey hair which fell in a tangle to his shoulders. On this back rested a massive warhammer, and he was clad in leather and bear fur. A cloak, also made of bear fur, hung on his shoulders; the palace was always slightly chilly. Ulfric dismissed the guards.

Galmar turned and regarded Ulfric. 'Where have you been, Jarl Ulfric?' He asked, in a deep voice.

'Away.' Ulfric replied. They stared at each other before Ulfric thrust his arms around Galmar and they embraced. He pulled away, keeping his arms on his Housecarl's shoulders and they looked at each other. 'It is good to see you, my friend.'

'And you, my Jarl.'

They separated and Ulfric led the way to the map of Skyrim. 'Shall we talk war?'

'I've done nothing else in your absence.'

'And you will do nothing else until we've won.' Ulfric grinned, before a shadow crossed his face. He motioned a guard over. 'See that the Imperials know I am in Windhelm again. It was inspire my allies.' He turned back to the map. 'Still no word of Balgruuf?'

'I have received nothing.' Galmar confirmed.

'That isn't good.'

'Balgruuf will choose the right side when it comes to it.' Galmar assured Ulfric.

'Are you sure?' Ulfric wasn't. He was beginning to lose hope.

'Who else would he choose?'

'The Imperials? Half the Jarls did.' Ulfric reflected.

'They are traitors.'

'Damn it Galmar! They are swords, levelled at my throat!' He burst out angrily.

'They will not reach it while I live.'

'Stop being so naïve! Enough swords will best even the Stone-Fist!'

Galmar bristled. 'Aye, they will, but the only way to assure they are turned is if we attack.'

'What do you suggest?' He leaned on the table and looked at Galmar, his eyes, dusty grey, and shot with blue, an unusual combination, focused on the Housecarl intently. Ulfric suppressed his anger and breathed in heavily.

'I suggest we advance on Morthal. This is an important point, what with its proximity to Dawnstar.'

Ulfric nodded. His own strategy was good, but as Galmar often mentioned he was too 'fiery' and his plans, that held strong potential, became rushed and lost their effectiveness. It frustrated Ulfric and despite his attempts to control them, his mind often outran itself. _Like with the mage in Helgen, _Ulfric reflected. He could have identified the mage if he had waited a bit longer.

'What about Falkreath? It would give us good leverage. Also it has strong Stormcloak support inside it.' Ulfric suggested.

'True,' Galmar moved his finger across to a fort in Falkreath Hold. 'That is Fort Neugrad, one of the biggest in all of Skyrim. It has strong walls and a powerful garrison. _If _we should attack Falkreath, we would have to capture it first.'

'If we attacked from the west, we could cut it off from Falkreath itself.' Ulfric pointed out.

'But it would prove nigh impossible to defend. You see, although recent Jarls have improved Falkreath's defence, it would still be very difficult to hold against an Imperial Legion.'

Ulfric looked at the map. He pointed at the fort. 'Neugrad it is. And I have just man for the job, Galmar.' The Jarl smiled.


	18. Size Matters

**Two things to say this time and then you can read it (unless you just skip this bit, in which case- good for you). I checked; to my knowledge you can swim in a chainmail shirt. Most importantly, big thanks to DoctorDovah who posted a review! Yes, a review! Cool, good, right, okay. Let's get going then… **

**DoctorDovah, this one's for you.**

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

_**Fort Neugrad was going to be a hard to crack,**_Ralof mused, as he studied the fortress. It was a fine day; the sun was out and it provided some heat, even as winter advanced on Skyrim. Ralof inspected the defences from his point on a rocky outcrop which provided a good vantage point over the fort. _It was big, _Ralof gave it that. It occupied a massive swath of land, no doubt extending its reach over the whole of Falkreath Hold. He leaned back, and let out a long breath. _How did Galmar expect him to take this?_

Ralof had only arrived the other day, on the back of his horse, into his first command after having received a message mid-way to Windhelm from a courier. It seemed that Ulfric had recalled his part in their escape from Helgen and had given him this chance to prove himself. _But why the biggest bloody fort in the whole of Skyrim! _Ralof climbed down the outcrop and walked back to the camp, located north of the blasted fort.

The men greeted him as he trudged back to his tent, but just walked forward, in a daze. He sat on a camp stool and sat musing over his misfortune when the scout burst into the tent.

'Sir,' he stood to attention.

'What is it?' Ralof asked wearily.

'I've found an entrance into the fort.' He was wet, his leather jerkin dripped with water, as was his dark blue sash.

Ralof looked up, his blue eyes sparkling. 'Sit man! Tell me everything.'

**It was dark when Ralof came out of his tent. **The men Ralof had chosen to infiltrate the fort were dressed in shirts and breeches, with light boots, leather greaves and bracers (as they had to swim) and light mail shirts. They had left shields, helmets and steel bracers, etc as they would weigh them down too heavily in the water. The mail was necessary for survival and the scout had said they would only swim a short distance. He was to lead them down a route which apparently led to the prisons, which were filled with Stormcloak prisoners! If they could reach them, then they might be able to take the fort.

According to another scout the fort was occupied by around two-hundred and fifty Imperial soldiers, whereas Ralof only had one-hundred. And even that was stressing the amount that could be taken across a Hold without drawing too much attention. _The prisoners should even the odds, _he hoped.

Ralof had ten other Nords with him, while the other ninety would attack at the first sign of fighting. They were ready, but as he was about to set out Ralof remembered something that had been bugging him. 'Scout! You said this tunnel leads to the prisons. What through?'

'The latrines, sir.'

'Ah…'

**Shit. It was everywhere. **The swim had been the easy part, but the tunnel was narrow, and it was covered in refuge. Rats ran amok in front of Ralof and not for the first time the cursed the scout, who led the way. He heard the men grumbling behind him, and although he could tell them to be quiet, Ralof knew he was contributing his own share to the grumbling.

They continued like that for ten minutes; ten minutes too long for Ralof, before they finally emerged from the tunnel of shit and out into the latrines proper.

'Okay men.' Ralof whispered. 'Find some water and douse yourselves a bit.' They were only too eager to comply, and within a few minutes they were all mostly clean, but the stink pervaded. _Might scare off the enemy, _Ralof thought. He drew his greatsword, which had proved very difficult to get through the tunnel, and advanced up the steps. His own men drew their weapons and followed him silently, the stone muffling their footsteps.

Ralof took a right and entered the prisons. They were a mix of corridors, all leading to the main chamber he saw in front of him. He signalled and the men arrayed themselves behind him. Ralof sheathed his greatsword and pulled out his dagger. An Imperial was humming to himself in front of Ralof and he recalled the tune. It brought back memories and Ralof was tempted to spare him. _But how? Why?_ It wasn't practical. He had to die, so Ralof pulled back the man's head and slit his throat. A gurgling sound was the Imperial's last words, as he slumped in his chair and blood soaked his armour. Ralof forced down bile and expressed his disgust at the deed before getting his men to search the rest of the prison for soldiers.

He sent them in pairs and before long he heard the sounds of fighting, muffled and quick. He searched the Imperial whose throat he slit and pulled out a set of keys and started unlocking the doors of the cells in which the Stormcloak prisoners resided. There were a lot, at least fifty. Fort Neugrad had large prisons, it seemed. The Stormcloak prisoners quickly made their way to the main chamber where their gear was stored and suited up, quietly. They assembled there, as Ralof waited for men he had sent to clear the prison.

They returned quickly, reported all was clear and Ralof decided it was now or never. He put them into groups of ten, each under one of his own ten men, which explicit orders to use stealth where possible; they were still outnumbered.

The Stormcloaks quickly moved off, out of the door at the top of the steps and into the fort proper. Ralof made to follow them but before he could he was thrown, back into the prison where he slammed against a cell. He heavily and looked up, shaking his head; his vision blinking with purple spots. In front of him stood a massive Imperial, taller than Ralof, even as tall as Ulfric! An _Imperial man_! Talos!

He was dressed in full Imperial steel, with a massive sword. He must have killed one of the pairs Ralof sent out, he quickly reflected. The brute let out a roar and brought his sword down on the rebel who rolled and slammed his dagger into the… _thing_'s leg. It sunk in, but the Imperial let out a vicious kick into Ralof's stomach, winding him severely. He blocked the next, but it bruised his arms and Ralof tried to get to his feet.

The massive Imperial had other plans though, and he heaved the rebel up one-handed and slammed him against one of the cell doors. It crashed inward, and Ralof used the unexpected event to pull the Imperial's arm, who had been thrown off balance, to slam his huge head into the top of the cell (yep, he was that tall). He then jumped onto the cell door's sill, and swung off it, slamming his feet into the Imperial's stomach. However, the massive man caught them, apparently not feeling the blow, and threw him over, away from him, and then attended to his bleeding forehead.

Ralof seized the chance and ran for his greatsword, bringing it round, just as the Imperial brought down his own sword. The strength of the blow staggered Ralof, and he ducked under, swinging his sword into the brute's stomach. The blow was met and the Imperial shoved his sword out of the clash, sending Ralof back out into the corridor that led to the main fort.

The rebel pulled in great breaths, as the massive Imperial stabbed at his own stomach. Ralof dodged the blow, which smashed off a fair chunk of stone, and brought his own sword down on the Imperial's, knocking it down, before he twisted and swung his sword, taking off the Imperial's head.

Ralof took one look at the massive corpse and slumped against the wall. _Next time, they go in fours. _Sweat poured off his brow and he pushed his blond hair out of face, which was now covered in blood, sweat and shit. He looked up at the corridor as the scout burst back in, his axe bloody.

'The fort is ours, sir.'

Ralof just slumped his head against the wall, exhausted.


	19. Blood And Power

**To start, my thanks to Raigaua for the alert-thing. It's great to know that people read this story! Also, I got a new review, but unfortunately it was from a friend, who made it into a joke review. I could delete it, but it is pretty funny. Check it out if you want, its There She Goes And She's Comin. Also, now that Jon's trained with the Greybeards I'm going to have to include draconic in his chapters. Oh well… **

**Dovahkiin **

**The wood exploded into lots of splinters, flying in all directions. **Jon turned back to Arngeir, who nodded his approval.

'Your suleyk grows with every passing day.' Jon nodded his appreciation. 'Walk with me, Dovahkiin. We will find a yol, _fire,_ to pass the night by.' He started walking into High Hrothgar and out of the bitter winds that wracked the Throat of the World. Jon followed, and Arngeir led him to a small fire and two chairs. He pulled one up, while Jon sat in the other, and rested his hands on his knees.

'Have I told you the finer details of the thu'um?' Jon shook his head. 'Then I shall.'

'The thu'um is a form of magic.' He began.

'Can the Dovahkiin use magic?' Jon asked.

'Yes, and nid, _no. _The thu'um has always been considered a form of magic, albeit an often unusual one, as there are few practitioners left that can control it. It was original granted to humans by Kynareth, the goddess of sky, but it was later granted by Akatosh, the Lord of Gods, and the great dov, _dragon_. It might surprise you to learn that Alduin is considered to be Akatosh's firstborn.'

'Alduin is a god?' Jon asked.

'Yes, in a sense.'

'Then how can I defeat a god?'

'That is for you to siiv, _find._' Jon nodded. The Greybeards often lo, _deceived, literally (translated as spoke indirectly.) _As I said before, Akatosh gave the sossedov, _dragonblood, _the ability to travel down bloodlines. But no, the Dovahkiin has no special ability over the traditional form of magic. He or she can use it, but not instinctively as you can use the thu'um.'

'So, my father had the sosdragon?'

'Most likely. What was he like?'

'I never met him.' Jon admitted, painfully. Talking of his family reminded him of Ysold, and his son. He pushed away the memory. Arngeir pretended to ignore the fact that Jon had stopped listening.

'Then we shall never know.' Jon looked at Arngeir, and suspected that he knew more than he let on, or assumed it in any case. He studied Jon's face intently, focusing on his hair especially. 'In any case, the sos can be passed down from father to son, or daughter. The Septim's are the most famous examples.' He leaned back.

Jon waited, before asking the question that had plagued him since his arrival. 'What about the tightness? Why does that happen?'

'The tightness?' His brow furrowed. 'Ah, yes. That is the thu'um trying to force its way out of your throat. You see, it is very powerful, and hard to restrain. Only you, Dovahkiin, are likely to be able to fully control it. Others, such as myself, have to release it or lose consciousness. As you can imagine though, this is an uncomfortable experience and so most let it out. Leaving it for longer gives you less control over its final projection. '

'I thought the rotmulaag, _words of power, _controlled it.'

Arngeir frowned. 'They do, to an extent, but as with all magic it is often unpredictable. It is far more powerful than traditional magic though, but at a loss to its control. I might remind you though, as I said before when we discussed traditional magic in full, that too is hard to control. It can often backfire, and it can al, _destroy._'

A memory flashed before Jon's eyes; Ulfric's thu'um brushing aside the mages magic under Helgen. Arngeir was vahzah, _true._

'Now, I believe that is enough for a day.' Arngeir said, breaking Jon from his thoughts. 'You should rest, tomorrow you will face your final task.'

'My thanks, master.' Jon got up, pulled his cloak around himself and walked out of the monastery. Life was fine here, Jon reflected, after he had reached to edge of the mountain courtyard. But he missed the real-lein, _world_. The Greybeards were too isolated. He had spent two months here, and while he had been tutored in all manner of things, such as history, words, animal species, the thu'um and even the more precise arts of strategy, which Jon could tell the Greybeards found distasteful. However the Dovahkiin's primary role was that of warrior, and it was necessary. Although he had proved rash in strategy they had tempered his eagerness into a more useful patience. _That had taken a long time though_. Jon smiled.

In all, he was eager to complete his last task and get away. He felt stifled, and he seriously contemplated how any of the Greybeards managed to actually live up here. But night was closing on the mountain and he turned to go back inside, to his hard bed, in a cold room (he had his own room as Dovahkiin, the Greybeards shared), which was woefully devoid of a warm Ysold. He sighed.

'**You must retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder.' **It was said with a sense of finality. 'With its return, we shall swear you in as Dovahkiin, for the world to know.'

Jon just wanted to finish the training and escape, but he couldn't help notice the finality of the statement. After this, Jon would be on his own. He had had two months to prepare for it, and despite his feelings to life on High Hrothgar, the sudden and immediate change it brought sobered him a little. But, he knew he couldn't live like this; his blood was too fiery. It was sossedov after all. So, Jon bowed, and having prepared to leave immediately, strode from the main chamber and into the biting krah, _cold_, of the world outside without another word.


	20. The Beginning of the End

**Another Tullius chapter. The war's beginning in force… **

**Imperial General Tullius **

**Imperial General Tullius woke with a start into a black room. **

'Sir?' The Messenger stood halfway through the door. 'I have a report.' Tullius motioned him over and he gave the General the military movements of the week.

'What's so important about this? Couldn't it have waited until morning?'

The messenger shied away slightly from his tone. 'Jarl Ulfr- Ulfric Stormcloak is on the move.' Tullius noted the way the scout nearly regarded Ulfric with a degree of respect. _They all did_, he reflected grimly.

'His armies have been moving over the last month.' Tullius told the scout.

'No, sir; Ulfric _himself_ is moving.'

'With his army?' The messenger nodded. 'Where's he heading?'

'Falkreath, sir.'

'Good. You can leave.' Tullius didn't wait for the scout before he got up from his bed and crossed to his wardrobe and the stand where his armour was kept. He quickly started dressing, calling out for his squire to help arm him, impatient. _This could be it. I could see his head mounted on a spike within the month._ When he was done, outfitted in his full gilded breastplate, bracers and greaves with his sword at his side he told the squire to run and wake the other Legates. _Ulfric wasn't escaping this time._

**Tullius was waiting for them in the war room, **where he quickly briefed the Legates.

'Rouse the Legion. We're going after him immediately!' The other Legates looked nervous at his excited tone, exceptionally rare, but Tullius didn't care. If he could trap Ulfric, then it would all be over. When they continued to look shifty, he barked; 'Now, Legates! Tell them to prepare for the end of Ulfric and the Stormcloaks.' He smiled a bloody grin. 'This time, as soon as I see his bastard face I'm going to personally take off his head myself.'


	21. On The War Path

**I know the last chapter was a bit short, but it really didn't need any thing else mentioned. Yeah, so back to Ulfric! (Which has also turned out pretty short. Oh well. I promise the next ones will resume normal length.) **

**Also, I had finished this chapter by the time they came through, a BIG thanks to Puttekara for the favourite and alert, HowYouRemindMe (cool name by the way) for the alert and Aero l'aquila for a review, alert and favourite (you went the whole way!) Cheers! **

**This is for you guys…**

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**It was a big army Ulfric led. Very big. **As Ulfric sat up upon his horse, watching true Nords march past, raising their weapons in salute he felt a surge of pride. He had started this, and it was glorious. Truly, it was. He shifted, looking to the back of their mile long march, his mail tinkling as he moved. He was properly outfitted for war, armoured in plate; on his arms and upper torso with a gorget, and with mail reaching to his knees. It was all black, black as midnight.

He turned to address Hormon Wolf-Pelt, his second-in-the-field, having left Galmar in charge of Windhelm. Of course they had argued bitterly about it, but Ulfric wanted to lead the Nords to Falkreath himself. They had originally meant to make for Morthal, but Galmar had advised against it; it was too close to Solitude and they couldn't attack Whiterun yet, as they didn't have enough men. _But I will. With Falkreath's fall, all true Nords will rally to me. _

'Tullius is headed for Morthal?' The Jarl asked Hormon, who was clad in a heavy wolf pelt, thus how he had earned his name.

'Yes, my Jarl. That is what the scouts report.'

'Good.' He turned his horse from Hormon and waited to receive the scouts that were racing to his position. He rode to meet them as they drew near.

'Report.'

'My Jarl, Falkreath is mostly undefended. Captain Ralof has reported that Neugrad has been taken successfully.'

Ulfric felt another surge of pride. His plan was working, despite Galmar's doubts. Without that fort, the dog Tullius was the only hope for Falkreath. It was looking good. 'Hormon, here!'

'My Jarl.'

'Tell the Captains of each group to keep formation, but otherwise make for Falkreath. I want it taken within the next few days.'

'What about scouts, my Jarl?'

'For what; wolves?' Ulfric mocked him. 'I thought you killed them? Or did you get that pelt off a dead one?'

'No, my Jarl. But scouts are hardly trustworthy at the best of times-'

'Enough. Send the order.'

'My Jarl?'

Ulfric's grey-blue eyes gave him an icy stare. 'Do it now, Wolf-Pelt.'

'Of course, my Jarl.' He turned with one more anxious look which further stoked the fire of Ulfric's growing anger. He turned. 'Imperial forces are nil, yes?' Ulfric asked the scouts.

One of them leapt to the mark. 'Yes, si- my Jarl.' He smiled, aware of his mistake. 'I used to work in Solitude before I joined. I was actually part of an anti-Imperial effort, called the New Stormcloaks. Perhaps you've heard of them?'

'No, but I should like to here more.' Ulfric decided to humour the scout. Respect was earned by leaders. Loyalty was earned by men. He rode off with the scout at his side, his heart bursting with anticipation. The cold bit into his armour and a smoky grey overcast had appeared, but in a few days Falkreath would fall. And then, so too would Solitude… 


	22. A Mysterious Stranger

**Another chapter for Jon, (who at the moment is following the story at an annoying amount, but I can't break him away, not yet). So, this is advancing his story. After this it starts leaping forward in bounds, however if anyone does like this a lot, tell me and I'll re-examine my rush-through-the-main-quest-so-I-can -do-the-stuff-I-planned-at-the-start approach. **

**Thane Jon, of Whiterun **

**Riverwood. This town couldn't seem to let him go. **Jurgen's horn had been taken by the time Jon arrived, but he hadn't had tiid, _time,_ to feel anything because in its place had been a note. Jon remembered the words; they had been seared into his mind, even though they should have amounted to nothing. _I have the horn. Ask for the attic room in The Drunken Giant in Riverwood. Come alone, and all will be revealed. _

And so here Jon stood, in the middle of Riverwood, striding to the inn, the never ending krah, _chill,_ biting at him, so that when he reached the inn Jon was almost happy to be getting out of it, but he didn't know who he was meeting and how powerful they were and this feeling intruded on the sudden warm of the inn. His thu'um had developed to an extraordinary level, but if the stranger was a mage he might be in for a fight.

He headed to the innkeeper, the same breton woman who had watched his earlier krif, _fight, _with the other Nords here.

'I want an attic room.' Jon told her, careful to keep from uttering any draconic for fear of detection. Recently he had found it hard to keep them apart, and he was growing worried as to what this meant for his future, and his mind.

'We have no attic room, but you can take that one.' She pointed to a room off to the side and Jon went to it, still in his heavy travelling gear. He closed the door and waited in it, his hand rested on the pommel of his zahkrii, _sword_. He waited for a few minutes before the same breton woman entered and beckoned for him to follow. Jon was slightly baffled by her reappearance, but he followed without a sound, the click of his boots being drowned out my the merriment of the inn.

**She led him to the biggest room and went to a wardrobe by the side. **The Breton tapped the back and, to Jon's surprise and growing concern, it slid aside to reveal a short flight of steps behind them. She went down the steps and Jon followed wearily. The entrance closed behind him, but Jon was determined to exude an aura of calm so he just continued to follow the innkeeper down the steps, appearing undaunted.

They reached the bottom, into a large room with a table in the middle, strewn with maps, books and a dagger. On it also rested the dovahgolz, _Dragonstone_, which surprised Jon, and he struggled to remain impassive. Obviously the person he was dealing with was well connected, but could they use magic?

On the walls were weapon racks and one caught Jon's attention; an Akaviri Katana. He was intrigued to find one here, seeing as they belonged to an old race of humans who had came to Tamriel in the second era. _The Greybeards teaching is playing off, _he thought, pleased. _In fact the last users of this kind of weaponry were the Emperor's previous protectors, the Blades…_

Jon turned to face the woman who was watching him suspiciously. She didn't look hostile, but still he was cautious. Jon knew though. Now he had worked out her secret he studied her with more interest. She was in her mid-fifties with blond hair, tied back and a hard, lined face. She was in good shape though, and Jon suspected she was still more than capable of ending him should she get a chance and have the right motivation.

'You're a tuz, a Blade. This sword,' Jon motioned to it; 'is a Katana.' He looked around the room. 'The precise organisation of the table; the secret room. You're being hunted by the Thalmor, but why do you want the horn?' In one short speech he had asserted his dominance and thrown her off guard. She no longer held the power, and she knew it.

'Correct.' She said tightly, obviously dismayed at the loss of her secrets. 'I have the horn.'

'Where?'

'Nearby.'

'That wasn't an answer.' Jon knew he was being curt, but he felt he had to be or she would dominate him.

'Here.' She produced the horn from a chest behind her. 'I merely needed this to get your attention.'

Jon took the horn and slung it around him using the strap on it. It was large, made of ivory and silver. 'You have it, Blade.'

'Friends call me Delphine.'

'Am I a friend?'

'I hope so.' She looked tired and Jon felt a pang of sympathy. 'I've been waiting for a long time for someone like you.'

'A Dovahkiin?' She looked at Jon uncomprehendingly. 'A Dragonborn.' He told her.

'Yes. Yes, I have. We all have; the Blades. Here.' She beckoned Jon over and he followed. She showed him a map on which several locations had been circled but some were crossed out. Jon looked at her questioningly. 'It took me a while as well,' she said. 'See, I believe that these are all sites where dragons are being resurrected.'

'Resurrected?'

'By Alduin.'

'Faal Lein Naako.'

'What?' Delphine looked confused.

'Oh, er, it doesn't matter.'

'Right.' She turned her attention back to the map, pointing out the locations where the dov where being brought back to life. 'I want to know if you're Dragonborn. It's very important, so I need to see you kill a dragon and steal its soul.'

'What, you don't trust me?' Jon let out a grin. It was fun in a way to play with her, as she seemed the person who was used to playing with others.

She frowned. 'No, I don't.'

'Then why did you let me in.'

'I'm confident in my abilities. The Blades were trained to be proficient fighters.'

'Right, these are the same Tuz that were nearly destroyed by the Thalmor?' He asked.

'I'll explain it later, Dragonborn. ' Delphine said coolly, with some hesitation in naming Jon "Dragonborn". 'All you need to know at the moment is that I can help you achieve your destiny.' Jon's ears pricked up at that part and he gave her his full and undivided attention, while keeping his expression blank and impassive. Delphine misread his face and her mask broke, revealing desperation. 'Just… just help me.'

Jon's demeanour softened. 'Of course. I'll follow you, you lead me to the dragon and I'll show you my powers, but I warn you Delphine; the dov are bitches to kill.' He grinned.


	23. The Battle For Falkreath

**Nothing to say on this one… **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**The town was there. **Ulfric Stormcloak could see Falkreath from where he lay in the grass, his axe at his side. Around the Hold capital were arrayed all of his forces, under selected loyal captains capable of quick, lightning strikes. That would be all that was needed to signal the fall of Falkreath.

The town was hardly defended, but in these times of war the gates had been closed and stout wooden walls surrounded the town. It would be easy to take, with a quick strike. He had sent scouts into the town to open the gates for his forces, but he had also ensured that ladders and a battering ram had been made, in case that failed.

He raised himself from the dirt and nodded to a man in light armour. He ran off to signal the other captains to attack. Ulfric pulled on his padding, mail coif and half-helm (so he could see better in this quick, tight attack). He turned to his men, around three-hundred good men. _True Nords_.

'Today, we make history.' His voice boomed out. The men were immediately captivated. 'We make it, through the strength of our swords, the steel of our hearts, the purity of our SOULS! Today, the rest of Skyrim will feel the storm of the Nords and today, we _begin the end of the EMPIRE_!' Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak turned. 'With me, all true Nords!' He started running and the men followed, roaring their battle cries. Ulfric knew that they should have been silent, but they were Nords; their voices were their essence.

He slammed against the gate, his men following. The Falkreath troops had reacted quickly and where already lining the battlements, such as they were for wooden walls. Arrows whizzed down and several Stormcloaks were struck.

'Fire back!' Ulfric called. The Stormcloaks reached for their own bows and returned the fire. But the enemy were beginning to use _actual_ fire! It rained down and lit patches of grass alight.

Ulfric pressed himself against the wall, away from the arrows. Rocks started falling, and one glanced Ulfric's helmet. He staggered, but regained his balance, worried. _Where were the spies? _Ulfric didn't wait, instead calling; 'Bring out the ram.' The men brought it out, by the arrows began to fall on them and the ram threatened to catch fire. However, more Stormcloaks took it up but soon the ram was slippery with blood.

Ulfric felt a pang of regret. Many were dying and things were not going well. He wondered how the other forces were getting on. He pushed the thought aside, letting the music of battle fill his ears again.

The ram had finally reached the gate and it started to smash against it. Bodies fell from the walls, prey to Stormcloak arrows but many more of Ulfric's own matched them. A Stormcloak officer rammed against the wall, pressing himself in. He smiled at Ulfric, before a rock smashed his skull, splattering the Jarl in blood and pieces of his skull. Ulfric staggered back and looked to the ram where another Stormcloak's leg was destroyed by a heavy crossbow bolt. _They are losing heart,_ Ulfric realised. They were beginning to fall back. Ulfric dropped his shield, now covered in a generous amount of dents, and ran to the ram. He took it up and rallied the men.

'FOR THE STORMCLOAKS!' He pushed and men followed. Arrows began to fall near Ulfric, as the defenders realised the leader of the rebellion was leading the ram. Stormcloak arrows answered them and more bodies fell, piling against the walls.

'Defend the Jarl!' Ulfric's ears were ringing and sweat began to pour from his brow. It was night, but the air had been lit by fire, and blood. He pushed and the ram shattered the gate, smashing a hole in the middle.

'Once more!' But then the fire caught and the ram blazed, red flames leaping up and tasting the ram. The Jarl stepped back and a groan went up, followed by a cheer from the defenders.

'On me. On me! Watch the voice!' He knew he only had one option left. Ulfric gathered his strength and let the tightness build. It reached an extreme level, and his vision dimmed. 'FOS RO DAH!'

The black and silver shout exploded from his mouth and burst apart the gate, and a section of wall. An almighty cheer went up and bows were dropped in exchange for steel. Ulfric's throat stung badly; he wouldn't be able to use that again, but his pleasure outweighed the cost.

The Stormcloaks pushed at the gate, but a large force had gathered, and managed to avoid the shout. But still, they had been badly hit. It was over.

'My Jarl! Behind us!' A soldier shouted. Ulfric turned and behind him was a massive force of Falkreath soldiers, at least three hundred strong. Dread rippled through Ulfric.

'No,' he muttered, his joy evaporated. 'BEHIND US!' The Nords turned as they were smashed by another Falkreath force; _'They must have snuck around,'_ Ulfric realised. That meant one of the captain's forces must have fallen; Hormon Wolf-Pelt's. Ulfric drew his axe and pushed his way back, arrows still striking the attackers, but these had lessened as the main group had begun to force their way into the city. Ulfric blew his horn, sounding the rear guard, a support group. There was no response and he sounded it again. Ulfric was puzzled before an arrow whizzed into his shoulder, breaking it and making him fall to his knees. The Jarl struggled to rise as pain lanced through his left shoulder.

'Not now.' He gritted his teeth and rose, trying not to be crushed by the press. The men noticed him and gave him space, even as the reserve pressed them into their comrades. They were caught and Ulfric went cold as he realised his mistake. He hadn't created a rear guard; there was none. They were dead.

His rage boiled and he thrust out, determined to die fighting. He shoved down his axe, smashing another Nord's skull and swung it, knocking over another. A spear thrust at him and he dodged, barely, and it glanced him, driving the wind out of the Jarl. Ulfric fought to keep his breath and blocked another sword blow before a Falkreath soldier grabbed him and threw him forward, into the enemy midst. He roared and rose, slicing the Nord's stomach open, as his men fought wildly to get him back.

Ulfric sidestepped an axe, but a sword caught him unawares, cracking a rib and breaking his chainmail, drawing blood. He slashed wildly, and his axe shattered on a shield, numbing Ulfric's arm. He was kicked back, sharp pain exploding on his chest. Red flashed across his vision and fell, the Nord following, ramming a boot into Ulfric's throat and raising his sword over the Jarl. The Nord thrust, and Ulfric caught the stab, his hands slicing open. He cried out his pain and spat out blood. His chest was burning now.

He tried to lift it, but his strength was deserting him. Ulfric twisted and the sword sunk into the dirt, staining it red with noble blood, while he pulled the Nord close and wrenched loose his dagger, opening his opponent's throat. Warm blood washed his face, warming him, but he felt cold. As cold as steel.

Ulfric tried to rise, but his blood covered his chest and mail had been ripped viciously, _or is that my chest._ His shoulder sent pain to slam against his mind, which struggled to break free. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands were bloody, and white. He saw bone poking from his palms and fell back, the red pain washing over him. And then only darkness…


	24. A Unique Confrontation

**Ok, I've decided to do a one off and write a chapter from Delphine's point of view. I just thought it would interesting to do it, so I have. Hope it's good. **

**Delphine **

**The roar pierced the small village. **The residents turned and started running inside while the Dragonborn (she was still unsure about this, but seeing as she didn't know his name there appeared to be no alternative), pushed himself forward, straining to get a look at the dragon. It was huge and black, but it flew away up the hill. _To the burial mound. Talos above! _She started running, but Dragonborn had the same idea and had started sprinting up the hill.

Delphine followed, her katana banging against her shin, but she kept running, pouring her energy into keeping up with the Dragonborn. The night was cool, but sweat began to prick her brow and yet she still continued on. She was a Blade and she wasn't going to fall behind, not now, not ever.

The Dragonborn was much faster than herself and he raced ahead, while she struggled to keep up. Delphine cursed age and continued after him, her cloak flapping behind her. As she drew near she noticed a light; purple, gold and black. It dazzled her and swirled around one spot: _the mound. The dragon's resurrecting the other one right before our eyes. _She rushed forward but was grabbed by a strong grip. A hand clasped her mouth and pulled her behind a large boulder.

'Ssshh.' The Dragonborn told her. His blue-silver eyes were awake in the light, and he was crouching behind the boulder, his side pressed against it. He let go of her and peeked out from under it, his lean face and strong brow catching the weird light. His hair seemed to absorb all colour and light as it was lightly ruffled by the wind. _To be fair_, Delphine realised, _he is quite handsome. But the strong, almost bear-like features mar any kind of delicate edge his face might have had. _Delphine was surprised to note this, as it wasn't something she usually concentrated on. His eyes were the main part though. They _saw_, and power radiated from them. It was strangely intoxicating.

The Dragonborn pulled her back to reality. 'That's Alduin, _Faal Lein Naako_; The World Eater. Stay quiet.' He was reaching for his pack and she turned her attention to it. He pulled out a bow and some arrows and she knew what he was doing.

'No, not here. Wait.'

'I have to kill him. I'm not letting his chance pass me.'

'Fine.' She hissed. 'But don't expect any help.' He was already stringing his bow and ignored her as he readied an arrow. 'That won't do anything,' the Blade told him.

The Dragonborn smiled at her before uttering some words of, presumably draconic, that she didn't catch and the arrow burst into flames. He swiftly rose, turned and released. Delphine watched as the arrow hit Alduin… and burst, knocking the massive dragon back in the sky. Even from where she crouched Delphine felt the ripple of heat and she covered her face and eyes. The Dragonborn didn't appear to be troubled by the light or the heat. He just rose and watched as his enemy landed heavily.

The massive black dragon looked around wildly, his piercing red eyes searching the landscape. The Dragonborn rose and walked towards him. Delphine followed.

'_Ah, Dovahkiin! Nii los tiid zu'u grind.'_ The black dragon, Alduin, started talking at a rapid pace and Delphine lost any hold on the conversation. The Dragonborn appeared to understand perfectly and he replied in kind, using the same language. Alduin let out a snort and spoke more draconic. He then turned his massive head on Delphine, assessing her. 'And who is this? Another mortal?' His deep voice rumbled the words, but like the Dragonborn's it was surprisingly clear. He studied Delphine, who stared back, into his eyes, and as she looked she felt a strange despair, as if the world was ending, and in his eyes she saw it all. She tried to pull back, but couldn't and struggled not to fall to her knees before him.

The Dragonborn uttered a few words of draconic and Alduin turned. Delphine sagged, exhausted and looked at the pair, who were now conserving like equals. The Dragonborn didn't appear to be affected by Alduin's stare. Alduin let out a snort and the Dragonborn barked out some draconic. The World Eater raised himself and spoke some quick sharp words, tired of the conversation. His eyes burned, and he looked on the Dragonborn like an insect now. For his part, the Dragonborn had gripped his sword hilt, stepping back.

Delphine looked between them, worried. Dragonborn looked at her and shouted out as Alduin released a massive roar drowning his words. He leapt at her and Alduin released a dark silver… force, that swept at her, flattening the grass. The Dragonborn grabbed her as the shout swept them off their feet, and he launched a light blue, rimmed in silver, shout of his own at Alduin's. The magic collided and released a bang that threw both of them down. The black dragon just looked at them, unfazed, and rose, his wings producing a harsh wind; and flew off with only a few more words for the Dragonborn.

The other, smaller dragon Alduin had resurrected had woken and started to crawl towards them, his wings still useless. The Dragonborn drew his sword and slashed, dodging the snap of the dragon and leapt onto its head. He let out another shout that froze the dragon's skull and thrust his sword in, shattering it.

The dragon fell, producing a massive dust cloud, and the Dragonborn stumbled off, whipping his sword through the air, shaking off the ice. He strode over to Delphine and pulled her up with one hand; his strength was immense. And then it happened: the dragon's scales dissolved into golden fire, which engulfed the Dragonborn and sunk into his flesh. He glowed golden, and then it dispersed leaving the hill a little bit darker than before.

Delphine looked up at the Dragonborn, standing tall and regal before her. He smiled; 'Do I pass the test?'

'I think I have a lot to tell you,' the Blade agreed wearily.

**Writing a Delphine chapter proved to be very fun, and I'm probably going to add more one-off character chapters, as they present a unique view point that can't always be achieved otherwise.**


	25. A New Falkreath

**Personally I think this chapters okay, but I needed it in here and I hope I've done a half decent job on it. If you think its rubbish though, WRITE A REVIEW! Or better yet, if you think its good, DEFINITELY write review. Speaking of reviews Aero l'aquila wrote another one! Yeah, I know he's a damn-di-fied fan! Thanks to newcomer bladerunner12-57 who also wrote one as well. Seriously, my thanks. **

**Okay, lets get on with it. Aero and bladerunner, this is for you guys. **

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

**Captain Ralof of Riverwood rode through the blackened gates of Falkreath. **He noticed the heavy blood stains around the gate and along the main road through the town. Otherwise Stormcloaks lined the walls, and walked in the streets collecting goods, weapons and other supplies.

The residents were still here, mostly; but Ralof couldn't help noticing that there were several reoccupied houses and new funeral pyres. He also sensed it in the air. Although there was joy and triumph, the worn faces of those around him told him that the town had been taken at a heavy cost.

Ralof himself had arrived with his contingent about a week after the battle, and the new Falkreath was a mystery to him. As a boy of fourteen he had occasionally come here to trade lumber with his father. Ralof remembered it as a very different place.

**The rebel entered the Jarl's longhouse, which was very quiet. **He felt a little unnerved and told his men to stay behind before heading in the direction of the only voices and he entered a war room with two Stormcloak officers, who were arguing in hushed voices over a map. Ralof thought it was strange that they should be doing this after such a victory but he didn't enquire, instead just reporting as he was required to.

They turned and regarded him. One of them, a man of about forty with a large blond beard spoke. 'Captain Ralof? It's good to see you. Have you just gotten back from Neugrad?' Ralof nodded. 'How many men have you brought?'

Ralof thought the question strange in the circumstances but answered nonetheless. 'About three hundred.'

'Right, good.'

'Sir, if I may ask; where is the Jarl?'

'Which one?' The officer looked worried as he asked that.

'The former Falkreath.' The other officer left so that Ralof was alone with the blond Nord.

'Siddgeir Stuhn? He's in a cell until Jarl Ulfric passes judgement. Up to such a time, Dengeir of Stuhn is acting Jarl. We're planning to send Siddgeir back off to Solitude should he be dethroned; him and his household, Imperial dogs.'

'How long was it since you captured the town?'

'Two weeks.'

Ralof almost spluttered with outrage. 'Why hasn't a judgement been passed? The Nord is still the Jarl of Falkreath!'

The officer looked uneasy. 'You haven't heard?' He didn't look Ralof in the eye.

'About what?' Ralof thought he knew though.

'Jarl Ulfric, er; he was wounded badly in the battle. He's residing in the Jarl's bedroom, in a coma. He's not waking. We've sent someone to help him, a local healer, but ah… We'll see.'

Ralof's heart sunk, but at the same time he realised why everything appeared to be at a standstill. _If Ulfric was… _'Can I see him?'

The officer shifted and then said; 'Go ahead, but be quiet, and don't tell anyone otherwise everyone will want to see him.'

'I promise.' Ralof walked out of the room and across the main hall to the Jarl's bedroom. A guard dressed in full armour, with a drawn sword stood guard.

'What do you want?' The guard asked brutishly.

'To see the Jarl.'

The guard mulled it over before noticing Ralof's belt of rank and deciding he might as well. 'Fine, but no trouble.' He gave the captain a pointed look and moved aside to let him pass.

Ralof opened the door and stepped into a large room, with some comfortable decorations. In the middle of it all, on a raised step, was the bed on which Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak lay.

The Jarl's body was covered by a sheet, so Ralof couldn't see the extent of his injuries, but he was moving restlessly, eyes shut tightly, so he couldn't be in a coma. However he did look awful. _The officer hadn't over exaggerated. _His face was covered in dry blood, with bits obviously having been scrubbed off, but still… His hair was matted and one if his eyes was swollen. Ralof couldn't see anymore, but he didn't want to, judging from the fearsome injuries to the Jarl's face, and he guessed that under the blood there were more fearsome wounds to behold. He turned from his leader and nearly ran into a handsome woman in her forties; her hair was streaked with grey and her face displayed a few lines, but she was otherwise fairly attractive. Ralof supposed she must be the healer and when she strode over to Ulfric with supplies in her hands his suspicions were confirmed.

Ralof left the room, musing over what would happen if the Jarl died. He eventually decided that it wasn't worth thinking about and so he instead headed for the local inn with the mind to buy a drink and try and forget. It was all he could do.

The inn was far more lively, with a blazing fire and good company. Ralof pulled up a stool and ordered a mead, passing along several Septims while he mused about the fate of the Stormcloak army with Ulfric as he was. He came to the conclusion that until Jarl Ulfric could be healed, Falkreath must be defended. _But how? Who knew it well enough to actually ensure that they had the best chance of survival should an Imperial army attack?_

Jarl Siddgeir! He created these new defences, and so if anyone could help Ralof defend Falkreath then it would be the Jarl. The Captain resolved to talk to the Jarl tomorrow, and try and convince him to help. He wasn't too optimistic, but he had to do something. If he didn't act, then the Imperials would be on them and Ulfric would be killed. If that happened, then they were all lost. Ralof finished his mead and shoved his way back out into the daylight.

**See, that wasn't too painful. It was? You're writing a review about how bad it was? Oh, well… okay I guess. Do you want to write a good one after that? **


	26. Forgotten Memories

**I hope that this chapter will provoke some emotion. First, a big thanks to kalimali for the alert, Kayla for the great support (and review), Tt for the review and () for the fishy stick. Er, I'll eat later; thanks. **

**Next, I've set up a forum on the Thalmor and a poll for you favourite Skyrim Jarl. It will update will time and its live, so you can see the results yourself. Please put in a vote, as it will help me in my next story. Both are on my profile page. **

**Anyway, here we go…**

_**Ulfric **_

_**Images come and go like a summer breeze. **I remembered summer. The lakes around Windhelm sparkled like silver and the guardsmen were ready to entertain young boys. I had played with Balgruuf, only Balgruuf back then, who was my Father's ward. I remembered the summer days that came and went, days we spent fighting dragons and leading great armies of Imperial Legions. I was so naïve back then; I hadn't understood the Empire's weakness. I hadn't accepted that the Septim Empire was gone, and in its place; a pretender. _

_In my youth I wandered the lands south of Windhelm, with Balgruuf, both of us pretending to be Imperial Generals, or better yet, the Emperor himself! We got lost in the woods of Chorrol, hunted by evil bandits who wanted nothing more than to take our lives and with them, destroy the Empire. What I didn't realise though was that it had already been destroyed, taken away from us by the Daedra. But I didn't know, and I wouldn't know for a long time. We would stay there for hours until Father's guardsmen were sent out to collect us back. And it was in the woods of Eastmarch that I first used the thu'um. _

_Balgruuf and I had been fighting with sticks, and the other Nord boy managed to get the upper hand over me. I fell back and it just came out, built on my fear, shock and surprise. Also, as a darker element, and one I tried to ignore for a time was my jealousy. Balgruuf was knocked off his feet, breaking his arm and with that my life ended. The one I knew. After that it was never the same again. _

_When Father found out about my new ability he sent me away to train with the Greybeards. I knew I should have been honoured, but I couldn't help thinking that Father had some how found me unworthy to be his heir. I cried the day before, but when I came out the next day I put on a Jarl's face, impassive, while my emotions boiled beneath the surface. A word, a look, a rushed thu'um; they were all ways of releasing these emotions. I would never tell anyone this, not even her, but they were. I know that now. I do. Even so, after I was sent away things became much more focused and consuming, precise to the extent that I lost my foresight. The present became everything. _

_All things considered the Greybeards life had been a nice one, but it never had the adventure that I craved, and most importantly it was so isolated. I could never show anyone my abilities, never earn anyone's pride. I felt cut off, and I had to escape. _

_Steel and flesh is the best escape. It frees the soul and lets you unleash the true Nordic qualities that are so important in this life. So important to my Father. I had no choice; I had to prove myself. So I left the dead-end that the Greybeards offered and joined the Legion to fight the war. Of course, I didn't realise that the noble Generals of my youth were non-existent. Take Tullius, who is able, intelligent but utterly emotionless. He doesn't love or feel, and how can you fight for a cause if you don't believe in it? Even the elves must feel something in their Dominion. The Empire used to be like that, ruled by the Septims with the aim of bringing peace, a noble goal fuelled by determination and a will to bring honour to your forefathers. That was their goal, but now… The Mede's are nothing but greedy tyrants. Of course, you could say they have their greed that drives them, but that isn't an emotion. Not a real emotion. Emotions are powerful and control our actions, even against our better will. They are pure, ultimately pure, even if the actions that follow are somewhat less than. _

_Torygg was not a King, but he was a puppet. He didn't rule with love, or justice; he obeyed the Empire to the end, a heartless Empire, devoid of Talos. Loyalty is important, truly important, but he was slavish. There's a difference. _

_When I fought him I'll admit he was brave. He couldn't fight me, and yet he did. He stood and raised his sword in defence. I didn't expect it, how could I? But he fought like a true Nord. Only too late did I realise the mistake I made, but again, my foresight suffered for my very nature. I needed to prove that the Skyrim of my youth was gone, and that I did. But I was shunned by the new Skyrim. _

_I fought in the Great War, trying to win a better tomorrow for all free peoples. In the Battle for the Imperial City I distinguished myself, but still no one cared. They didn't remember me. I protected the Emperor himself and as a result I was captured by the Thalmor. _

_The pain was intense, but it never reached that of when my Father sent me away. Emotion kills as often as it cures, I soon found. I broke, eventually. What hurt the most? The fact I had failed the Empire? No, but it was important back then. The breaking of my bones, the scars left behind? They heal, as do all things. What hurt most was the sense of failure. I failed everything I held true to. But then, it was over. I moved on. _

_When Talos was outlawed I wept bitter tears, the first since that cold night in my chambers. At Markarth I tried to make a difference. I fought to save Talos, but it was for nothing. Again failure. Failure; it follows me at every turn. And following it, my Father, and Balgruuf, and Argneir, even Titus Mede. Every action haunts me. But I continue; for Skyrim. _

_I was imprisoned by the very Generals I looked up to. Aspired to. When my Father died, so too did any hope of redeeming my mistakes. I had tried, but as with most things it proved to be all for nothing. And that was when I realised the futility of one person. I needed more. _

_I returned home after near on twenty years. I was raised to my Father's throne. I didn't feel worthy of it. I still don't. But I had to take it, and use it. _

_The Stormcloaks are the vision I had for Skyrim. They are strong, and ready to fight for their beliefs, like I've done all my life. With them I am determined to win a future for Skyrim, and then peace. One day, the greatest war will come. Free men against the elves. We must prevail, or else Nords will be wiped from the Tamriel, even after all that our forefathers did for us. But it doesn't matter, not yet. First I must defeat the Empire, the last embodiment of my failure. With that final blow, I will build a new future for myself. But that is not now. _

_The breeze comes in through the door, as does the woman. She comes from a dream long forgotten, where boys were boys and the Empire stood for all the free peoples. But not completely forgotten. Not yet. _

_She stands like she did, when blood covered my sword and the dragon stood proud on my chest. It's an image I liked, loved, one I used to fuel myself in my darkest hours inside the Thalmor cell. It stands for all of Skyrim. It stands for emotion. I told you how important that was, but you never understand until you really feel it. I did, years ago. I never felt it again, but now, now I feel it. It strengthens the body and fuels the blood, something I need. _

_The blows were heavy, and I didn't expect to survive. Again failure followed me, snapping at my heels. Although this time, my Father wasn't there to witness it. Only my sons… _

_Blood is powerful. I felt it in Jon, a mere boy to me, and he felt it in her. It intoxicated me, what else could I do? But she was here now. It was her; it couldn't be anyone else. She was older now, but my heart still races when I see her and her walk still mesmerises me. They all think I'm gone, and I might have been. But the tears she sheds at my bedside fuel me. And I will wake. One day. One day soon…_


	27. Dragonborn in Full

**This ones about Jon. Not the longest chapter and I apologise about that. It will be the last one hopefully. Anyway, a big thanks to Dallas88 for the favourite story alert! Also, I've decided to make these bits more inserting by adding a fun, very complicated and important fact about my changed lore in Skyrim. They'll start next time. Also check out my forum and poll! **

**Thane Jon, of Whiterun **

**Jon walked into the Greybeards monastery as dawn **entered the sky and the world was lit by a golden light. The sul, _day,_ was clear, crisp and inviting. Jonstrode into the main room of High Hrothgar to see the Greybeards waiting into a circle for him.

Argneir walked forward to meet him. 'It is done?'

'Yes.' Jon showed him the horn, but the Greybeard waved a hand. 'Keep it. I suspect you shall need it one day.' His smile was mysterious and so Jon kept it; when a Greybeard smiled plots were afoot. 'Now what?'

'Now,' Argneir repeated slowly. 'Now, it's time to induct you into the Greybeards as a known fahdon, _friend_, but more importantly as the Dovahkiin.'

Jon nodded. It was time. This was a defining moment for his kogaan, _destiny,_ and with this blessing he would have the power to kill Alduin; and then, home, to Ysold and Alsfur…

'It is tiid, _time,_ to become Dovahkiin; to put aside any past identities, and become the Dragonborn.'

Jon nodded. It was tiid.

'Then step here,' Argneir told him. Jon stepped into the circle and Argneir told him; 'Stand against our voices and rise if you are Dovahkiin.' The Greybeard nodded at the others and they started speaking in draconic, their voices rippling with power. At first Jon felt nothing. And then it struck.

The massive surge of force pushed him over and he fell heavily. The thu'um began to push him into the ground and he felt his bones protest as they were forced into the ground. _I need to fight this. This is it. _Jon summoned all his strength, _mulaag,_ and pushed, his might being directly tested against their voices. He started muttering rotmulaage, _words of power, _which pressed against the force, trying to drive it back. Jon struggled to rise, and managed to sit up. Every muscle in his body shrieked in protest and any man would have given up, save the fact that Jon knew if he backed down, he would be crushed.

The Nord pushed himself to his feet, nearly falling, still muttering the rots, _words, _and trying to desperately force his way out. He rose, almost to his full height, but in his near success he stopped concentrating on speaking and fell painfully to his knees, the sudden push nearly breaking Jon's spine.

He was determined not to fail now, or else everything he had done so far would have been for nothing. Jon's tired limbs had a sudden surge of strength rush through them and he pushed himself up slowly, his sossedov, _dragonblood, _pumping through his body at an alarming rate. His head felt like it was going to burst and the pressure made his face feel like it was going to rip apart.And then, it was over.

**Jon rose, his body exhausted and spent. **He looked at Argneir who was smiling widely.

'It is you, Dovahkiin. It is you.'

Jon looked at him, his stare intense, and said, his breathing ragged; 'What now?'

'Now, you defeat Alduin.'

The other Greybeards had began to disperse and leave, bowing to Jon as they left. He accepted them graciously. 'What do the words mean, in the prophecy?' He asked Argneir, almost as an afterthought.

'To translate them directly? _Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Harken to it.' _

Jon was surprised by the message. It was a prophecy that, in a way, gave him the right to take the Dov-crown and rule the Empire. It was prophecy of immense power, with it he knew he could rally all of Skyrim behind him. He put the thought out of his mind and instead concentrated on his immediate quest; killing Alduin and returning home.

He started to thanked Argneir with a few words of draconic, but the Greybeard halted him, his expression hard; his words deadly serious and final. 'When Alduin is killed, our debt shall be settled…'


	28. Alea

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**She came everyday, at dawn and dusk. **Sometimes she came at noon. When he had woken the cries had gone throughout the town. Only then had he realised that they had taken Falkreath, but strangely he didn't care. The woman entranced all his thoughts.

Ulfric thought about little else. He was surprised by the way she looked at him, as if she did know him. So far, he had always feigned sleep when she came, trying to put a name to her face. He knew it, he knew he did.

His sleep was less peaceful. In it, he dreamed of fire and death. Blood coated his axe and he stared at it, as if entranced. Finally the images would part to reveal the woman, younger, but most definitely her. Sometimes he would be glad to have these dreams, if only to catch a glance of her.

Whenever she came Ulfric would study her with an intensity bordering on obsession. He ignored his Thanes and Captains and instead devoted all his energy into discovering her identity. It eluded him always and so he knew that one day he was going to have to actually talk to her. But this idea, so simple, created feelings of fear that had never troubled him in battle or facing his Thanes in court. Questions swirled through his mind and he desperately wanted answers to them. But he knew that only she could provide them.

**His chance came on a sunny day. **Ulfric knew little of what happened outside; he had lost track of days and time. He knew that he had to act soon or he might lose his chance forever.

She came in as she did in the early morning. Ulfric did wonder why she always came so early; was it to avoid having to talk to him, or was it so that she could get a bit of privacy with him? Ulfric hoped it was the latter. His eyes followed her walk as she started moving around him, doing the normal checks, such as looking at how his wounds were healing, the state of his breathing and other things. As always Ulfric kept silent, his emotions struggling to escape. His voice was failing him though, and he had to wrestle it into submission, and make it obey him. She started to move away; she was leaving. Ulfric battered down his throat, forcing his voice up. It came out as a soft, strangled word;

'Wait.'

The woman turned to face him, her expression impassive. Ulfric was knocked back a little; did she even now him? He had to try though, or else it would all be over.

'I know you,' Ulfric said softly.

The response was instant. She closed the door, threw down her healing tools and moved to his side. Her voice was soft, with a strange stirring. Was it loss, desperation? 'Yes, you do.'

'Yes.' He looked into her eyes and the name surfaced, covering in dust, dug deep down, but with its return came everything he had felt, and did feel. 'I still remember, Alea. I do.'

'You never forgot a face. I remember that, Ulfric Stormcloak.' She said the words softly, cautiously, as if he was going to suddenly forget everything and push her away. Ulfric would never do that though, would he?

'It's actually Jarl Ulfric now.' He let out a painful smile very unlike his grins. This was genuine.

She pursed her lips, but her eyes, blue, shone with amusement. 'You were always bragging about that. You promised to make me a princess.'

'I did.' The memory had resurfaced, painfully. 'I did, and can. You know my war?'

Alea nodded, as if the words were hard to find.

'I left you once, but not this time. This time, we'll stay together.'

**The days passed in a blur. **Every dawn and dusk, Alea would come back, later than before, and they would talk about the past, their dreams, their lives. For once Ulfric withdrew nothing and spilled his emotions at her feet. He was worried it would drive her away, but on the contrary she seemed to grow with every given memory, relishing the information he gave her. In return she told him her life, but he couldn't help but feel that she was withholding something important, something that could rip apart his world. Ulfric didn't press her; she had a right to be careful around him. Although he had never meant to, he had left her as their relationship was blooming, but this time he was determined that it didn't happen again and so he let her keep what she wished, while giving her everything.

This lasted for a couple of weeks, by which time they had finished telling each other their stories and instead returned to building their relationship. Ulfric was pleased by the almost unnatural progress they made, but also scared; as if fate was daring something to go wrong, but Alea didn't seem to share his anxiety and she pushed the relationship as far as she could, with Ulfric trying to keep up. But he didn't care though; he loved the fact that he was chasing her. It gave him a purpose that he hadn't had since Father died. A goal, attainable, but hard to reach.

Nonetheless her secret weighed heavily on her and Ulfric tried to uncover it, to break it open, but she withdrew everytime he reached out. Ulfric was scared of driving her off and so he dropped it, but still it weighed between them.

**Three weeks since Ulfric had spoken to her, **it happened. It was dusk, well in reality nearly midnight. Everyone was asleep and Ulfric had regained enough strength to sit up. Every day had returned more of his will, his charisma and his might and Ulfric felt better than he had before Falkreath, even before the war. His talks with Alea, his relationship, was reviving his soul, or at least that was how he felt and Alea moved with far more confidence than she had before Ulfric had began to talk to her. It was something which pleased the Jarl immensely and he began to flirt with her. Although the look on her face had originally thrown him off, she had broken into a smile and started laughing. Alea's laugh wasn't the clearest, or purest sound Ulfric had ever heard, but he still couldn't help but become addicted to it. And so he had tried to coax it out as often as possible. He often succeeded, far more with each passing day.

It started with gentle flirting; Ulfric musing out loud as to what she looked like without her dress on. She had replied by saying her knew, but Ulfric had said that it had been near on thirty years since then. It had made them both feel immensely old, but he had caught the moment and reversed it to say how much more beautiful he thought she was now. It hadn't been very sauvé, but it seemed Alea hadn't received these kind of compliments and requests for a long time. Ulfric was baffled as to why not, but he sensed it had something to do with him and her secret. It filled him was strange sadness, as well as a selfish happiness.

She had laughed, her face lighting up with delight and Ulfric had found the strength to raise himself up, to his feet. He towered over her, his bulk consuming her and Alea had laid her hands on his chest and rested her head against it, quickly, as if she had been waiting to do this for a while. She did this when we were young, he remembered. Ulfric also remembered what he had done, and he ran his rough hand through her hair, feeling the grey streaks. Alea took this as a sign and looked up, into his face.

Ulfric knew what she wanted and he leaned in to kiss her. She raised herself on her tip toes and then all thought vanished.

Passion consumed them and they fell into the bed. Fortunately Ulfric had no shirt on, but Alea had a dress which he ripped off in his lust. It fell to the floor and Ulfric revelled in her form; older, less full and shapely, but it didn't matter to Ulfric. He fell on it like a storm, and the ecstasy rippled through the room, changing everything. It was just them, and only them. As it should have been…

**Ulfric had never felt like he did now. **As he lay on the Jarl of Falkreath's bed, his arms around Alea, his mouth sucking her ear and she kissing his chest, he felt an overwhelming sense of triumph. They lay there, both content and happy, bursting with tired energy but Alea looked up at him, pain in her eyes.

She spoke, her voice a whisper, full of caution and a hint of fear. 'This can't continue…'

Ulfric's heart sank suddenly and painfully. 'No, not now.' His voice was like iron, hard and unmoving. He tightened his grip on her. She pulled away, and rose, pulling up the sheet to cover herself.

Ulfric reached for her, but she moved away. 'Why?' He asked, his eyes full of hurt. She shook her head, but he persisted this time. 'Why? Because of your secret? I won't let this end, not this time. Tell me!'

Alea shook her head, tears coming to her eyes. 'No, tell me!' He held her and she tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. Alea looked for an exit, a way out and returned his gaze. She choked back a sob and released it.

'You have a son.'

Ulfric was dumbstruck. He released his grip on her and fell back, but Alea didn't moved away. She leaned in closer again. He stared at her.

'What are you going to say?' She asked; her eyes full of fear.

But she was reading him wrong. In reality Ulfric was bursting with joy. _There is no other man; I have a son; an heir. I had him with Alea._ Ulfric returned her gaze, and a smile lit up his face. She returned it, her face shining.

'Why were you ever worried?' He asked her.

'The man I knew never wanted a child.'

'I'm not the same man.'

'No, you're not.' She looked him shyly, and Ulfric held out his arms. Alea leapt into them and started kissing him. He returned it, but pushed her away, still smiling.

'What's he like?'

'He looks like you. He has the same temperament.'

'You mean he's a cocky bastard.'

'He's brave, and true. He fights until the end, like you.' Her joy radiated over Ulfric.

'Where is he? Where was he born?'

'Solitude.'


	29. Dragonborn And Blades

**I changed Esbern's age a little, so that it was more in-keeping with my medieval style Skyrim. Thanks to the favourite story from Seax, and alert and favourite from HereLies! Much appreciated! Remember REVIEW! Or enter my polls.**

**Jon Dovahkiin **

**Jon Dovahkiin slammed on the door. **It was made of heavy iron, reinforced with thick layers of steel. He looked back at Delphine, who stood behind him in her light leather armour with a brown cloak flowing down her shoulders. She shrugged. Jon tried again.

A zul, _voice, _came out from behind the door and he looked back at Delphine again who came forward to the hatch in the thick iron.

'Yes, yes. I'll be there in a minute. Wait a blasted minute.'

'Esbern! It's me, Delphine.' They waited; the tiid, _time, _passing before a reply was heard.

'Delphine? Is that you?' An old man, in his early sixties, by far the oldest man Jon had ever seen opened the hatch and peered out. He regarded her carefully, as if she might be a trick. They had expected that though, after all this Esbern had been in hiding for close to thirty years.

'Remember me, old man?' She asked playfully.

'You don't look so young yourself…'

Jon looked around, surveying the area with immense care. His miin, _eyes,_ could withstand intense light but sadly they had no advantage in darkness.  
Delphine had warned him that it was possible that the Thalmor were drawing near to Esbern's position. At the moment she was acting very unlike herself; all her attention was devoted to talking Esbern into letting them in and catching up. That left Jon to take up her paranoid mannerisms.  
'Esbern, remember the 30th of Frostfall.'

Jon had no idea what she was talking about, whereas Esbern's reaction was immediate and he opened the door quickly. He decided not to press it, instead following the Blade's into the room on the other side of the door gratefully; he had a strong feeling that they were being watched.  
'Close it behind you.' Esbern's voice was rich, but cracked with age. Jon closed the thick door, moving back in surprise as several mechanisms sprang to action, barring the door shut.  
Jon Dovahkiin turned to Esbern who was studying him shrewdly. Jon returned it. Esbern was a Nord with a bald plate at the front of his head, but white hair still grew from the middle of his head to the back of it. He had a sadon, _grey_, beard and was short, for a Nord, but with a fairly stout figure. He wore a simple dirty white shirt, breeches and boots.  
'Who's this Delphine? Another Blade.'  
Delphine looked slightly sheepish, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. 'Esbern; this is er, this is Jon Solitude, a Thane of Whiterun.'

'A Thane? Bah, is he your protector Delphine, or something _more_?'

Delphine blushed; 'No, you silly old man. What a stupid thought. You're getting carried away; I'm too old for that anyway.'

The old man looked on her like a father. 'It's never too late.'

Jon decided it was time he stepped in. 'No, Blade Esbern. My name is Jon Solitude. But it is also Dovahkiin.' He looked pointedly at Esbern, whose eyes widened. He looked at Jon with a new interest, muttering 'it can't be'. The old Blade stepped back and looked Jon over. 'So, it is true. And there is hope…'

Delphine was looking confused and irritated at having been left out and she interrupted. 'What do you mean? Who's "Dovahkiin"?'

Esbern looked at her. 'Well, my draconic is rusty but if I'm correct it is the dragon name for Dragonborn.' He looked at Jon for confirmation.

Jon nodded. 'It translates as "Dragon" "Born" "Hunter", or "Born Dragon Hunter". It's my dragon name, and in a sense my true name. All the great heroes had them, for example Tiber Septim's name was actually "Dragon" "Blood" "King"; _Dovsosjun_.' The Greybeards had taught Jon extensive dragonlore.

'Indeed.' Esbern was regarding the Dovahkiin with a new degree of respect. 'Yes, now we have hope. The prophecy can be completed and the world can escape destruction. A slim hope; yes, but still…' He started muttering to himself and he moved away to rummage through a pile of books next to a desk. He glanced at Delphine and Jon. 'Please sit.'

Jon found himself a chair and sat on it, leaning against the wall in place of the chair's back, which was gone, but Delphine still persisted in her questioning. She looked at Jon, and he got a feeling that she had suddenly viewed him as an outsider. She moved up next to Esbern, her hand on her Katana.

'What prophecy, Esbern?'

The wuth tuz, _old Blade,_ stopped his rummaging to stare at her. 'What do you mean?' He looked at her like she was an idiot. He looked at the Dragonborn, as if confiding her stupidity with him, but Jon was equally perplexed; he just didn't show it. Esbern returned to Delphine, who stood there looking aspirated.

'The prophecy on Alduin's Wall. You have heard of that?' She shook her head. 'Created,' he resumed his rummaging; 'in 1E 2812 when Emperor Reman II permitted its construction. It was, and hopefully still is, called Alduin's Wall. It's purpose was to record the accumulated dragonlore and prophecy that the Akaviri Dragonguard, essentially the forerunners of the Blades, possessed at the time. Given that Alduin's return was inevitable, they believed that this was their gift to those that came after them, and they proved to be right. On it is the prophecy of the Dragonborn.'

Jon looked up, his eyes glowing. 'The Wall depicts my destiny?'

Esbern nodded. 'Yes, it doe- Aha!' He pulled out a black book with a silver dragon on the front with a look of immense satisfaction. 'This, Jon Dovahkiin, is the Book of the Dragonborn.' He gave it to Jon, who stood and took it, before turning it over before flicking through a few pages.

'It's all in-'

'Draconic. Yes, the only reason I already haven't read it yet already. It was written by Prior Emeline Madrine of the Order of Talos at Weynon Priory, a place near Chorrol, the Cyrodillic city, in 3E 360. It records the events up to that time that made up the fabled events in the prophecy. For the whole thing though we shall have to go and find Alduin's Wall though.'

Delphine looked flabbergasted. 'Just _find_ Alduin's Wall. It's that easy! Esbern, it has been lost for nearly three Era's!'

'Yes, I know my dear. But we don't have a choice. The Blades duty is to guide and protect the Dragonborn. We must help Jon.'

'The Blades duty _was_ to serve the Dragonborn.'

Esbern gave her a strange look. 'Here one is. We serve and protect.'

Delphine gave Jon a doubtful look. 'Fine.'

The Dragonborn stepped forward. 'I would appreciate any help I could get. But you don't have to help me; it is my destiny and mine alone. Onikaan ni ov dovah.'

'My dear boy, of course we will help you. Now, all we have to do is find the Wall.'

Jon was pleased with Esbern's willingness; he had only accompanied Delphine because he had no other way to find and defeat Alduin.

'Okay then. Do you have any ideas?' Delphine asked.

'Yes, I do. Like I said, I've been here a long time.' Jon didn't actually remember Esbern saying anything of the sort, but he humoured the Blade in his old age. It didn't inspire confidence though. 'Do you know where the Wall is?'

'No, I don't,' Delphine told him, annoyed. This was obviously a habit of his.

'It's simple. It's in Sky Haven Temple, the original stronghold of the Blades.'

'Where is it?' Jon asked, cutting to the point.

'In the Reach.' _The Reach is a mountainous Hold hundreds of miles from here,_ Jon thought with frustration. _It would take weeks to reach on horses._

'Yes, it makes sense,' Delphine muttered. 'It would be easy to conceal a temple there, even a large one.'

'Exactly! Yes, it would be easy. I even have an idea as to its precise location.' He rolled out a map in the corner of his desk. Jon leant over it and looked at where Esbern was pointing.

'That's Karth Mountain, near Karthspire,' he told the Blades.

'So, that mountain has Alduin's Wall inside of it.' Delphine said.

Esbern rolled up his map triumphantly. 'And all we need to do is get there.'

**Aha! Caught you. While you're reading this could you post a review. It can be good, it can be bad, but it'll always be a surprise. (Sorry, I've played too much Monopoly.) If you do that you don't have to read this anymore. Just one word! Just one. Do it now and you can skip the rest of this speech. Yeah, _sound_ good! **


	30. An Audience With The Jarl

**Cool, HereLies Reviewed! But so did Decepticon-Girl079, who also got (got?) an alert and favourite! It any case thanks guys. It's really appreciated and morale boosting-ing. I opted for a lighter chapter this time, so I hope I coax a few smiles out of my readers! Enjoy! **

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

**Ralof of Riverwood opened the door **into the still, humid air of the Falkreath prisons. Two Stormcloak guards were on dutywhen he entered but they soon deferred to his rank. Ralof made his way into the prison proper and looked around. A row of cells lined the walls, but it was the last one Ralof was looking for; the cell that held Siddgeir Stuhn, the former Jarl of Falkreath.

He was young man, with dark hair and watchful blue-green eyes and a long face. Siddgeir watched as Ralof approached his cell. The former Jarl's cell was better than the other prisoners; it was large with a chair, table and a bed. They were simple, but far better than any of the other Imperial's cells. _More than he deserves, _Ralof thought. When the men entered the longhouse Siddgeir didn't even have the decency to fight. As a result he looked pale, but otherwise completely unharmed. A deep disgust threatened to get out of Ralof, but he pushed it down. If there was one thing that he knew it was that Siddgeir wasn't a true Nord.

The rebel leaned against the former Jarl's cell. He wasn't afraid of him, why should he be?

Siddgeir looked up, and regarded Ralof with the distasteful look typical of arrogant nobles. Ralof decided that he hated the other Nord already.

'What would you have of me?' Siddgeir's accent was an Imperial drawl.

'A way to defend the town.' It sounded stupid to Ralof's ears.

Siddgeir appeared to agree with him. 'What? Why are you asking me? I hate you!'

Ralof was offended. 'You haven't met me yet.'

'You put me in this cell!'

'I wasn't even here for the battle. I was busy taking Neugrad. Speaking of which, do you happen to know a big brute of an Imperial, seven foot-'

'What are you talking about!' Siddgeir was looking at Ralof like he was mad. Ralof had to admit that this plan had its faults.

'Come on, you milk drinker; I need to know how to defend this town.'

'What, so that you can stop any rescue attempts from Tullius.'

'Well… yeah.'

'I knew that the Stormcloaks were all inbred but seriously… No wonder Ulfric is still losing the war.'

Ralof tapped the bars. 'And yet here I am, a Stormcloak, inside Falkreath and not behind those bars. You might want to reconsider who is actually losing.'

Siddgeir made an expression of agreement. 'True, I am here behind the bars.'

'So, are you going to help me?' Ralof asked again.

'It's a difficult choice, but I'm going to say no.' He smiled at Ralof, which only served to infuriate the rebel.

'Fine.' Ralof left and quickly got the key from one of the guards. He then returned and unlocked the cell.

'You're letting me go?' Siddgeir asked hopefully. Ralof closed the cell behind him and Siddgeir's smile vanished. 'What now?'

Ralof grinned at him, and then launched himself at the former Jarl. They slammed into the wall and Ralof started beating Siddgeir mercilessly. As he suspected, the resistance was poor, almost non-existent. Blood splattered Ralof's hands, but he continued until, after a surprisingly long time the former Jarl cried his surrender. Ralof backed off, but he other Nord leapt at him. The rebel easily dodged and launched a kick into Siddgeir's stomach. He collapsed to the floor, winded, and spat out blood.

'What do you want to know?' Siddgeir asked weakly.

'Where are the entrances?'

'Where you see them.'

'Where else?' Ralof's tone was harsh.

'There is a secret passage, under the mill.' Horns blared out. Ralof's blood turned to ice. Imperial horns…

Siddgeir's smile was sickening. 'Too late.'

Ralof ignored him and ran to the exit. The guards were in a flurry, but he told them to stay and ran out into the burning air. Smoke filled the air. Horns blared and Stormcloaks ran across the town, getting ready for battle. Ralof intercepted one.

'What's going on?'

'Imperials are here. Here to kill Ulfric.' His voice was rank with fear.

Ralof turned and saw burning hay falling over the walls. He ran to the mill, adrenaline pumping through his body and found it open and swarming with Imperials. The soldiers spilled out of it, dropping torches and quickly killing the Stormcloaks who engaged them. _The Jarl. I need to get to him. _And Ralof ran.

**If you liked it, review! If you didn't, review. If you wanted to destroy your computer because it sickened you so much… you know the drill.**


	31. Blood And Fire

**This time it's a big thanks to RaptorZeroOne, for posting a great review and alerts and favourite author (thank you) and everything. Also a MASSIVE thanks to HereLies who posted a second review. Yeah, I know! Anyway keep reviewing (please) and check out my Favourite Jarl poll! **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

Ulfric Stormcloak woke to the sounds of battle and the smell of fire. He rose up, looking around; his vision still blurry with sleep. Next to him Alea tried to pull him back down, but Ulfric shook her and she woke properly, registering the sounds with a look of shock.  
'What is it Ulfric?'  
He held out his hand, gesturing for her to stay. 'I don't know, but it's not good. Get dressed. The Jarl leapt out of the bed, sad to lose its warmth and Alea's body next to his, but the thoughts were swept from his mind when he heard the horn. An Imperial horn.  
'Quickly!' He ran to his clothes, hanging in the Falkreath Jarl's wardrobe. He pulled on the smallclothes, breeches and shirt. He fitted on his military boots, with scaled steel protecting shins and pulled on a shirt of mail. Alea helped him with these tasks after she had got into her dress. They ignored the padded jerkin that went underneath it and forgot his heavy steel plate shoulder and arm guards, opting for light bracers instead. He pulled on a belt as they burst in:  
Imperial General Tullius surveyed the room quickly, his eyes ignoring Alea, which Ulfric was glad for. _The Nord next to him was the same man that gave me the report on Falkreath's defences just before we attacked_, Ulfric thought. It quickly dawned on him that he must be a spy. _He betrayed me. _Anger rose up the Jarl's throat, as did the tightness; slowly restricting his breathing. But he was already breathless with shock and anger, so it only made him feel dizzy and weak. His vision began to blur and he leant heavily on the wardrobe.  
Meanwhile Tullius dropped the bow he was carrying, preparing to draw his sword. He started to bark out an order at the traitor but Alea leapt on the General, clawing at his face and then it happened in a flash.  
Tullius fell back, surprised at Alea's vicious onslaught. He ripped the scout's sword from the other man's hand, the traitor Nord still in his Stormcloak armour, and swung it, cutting down Alea mercilessly. The blade bit into her face and time slowed. Ulfric screamed. His emotions rammed themselves up his throat and he shouted, the effort tearing the blade from Tullius' hand and delivering it into Ulfric's. The scout's neck was broken with a clear snap as Tullius was blown back, breaking the wood on one side of the doorway as he was thrown through it.  
There was no time to think; Ulfric ran, past Tullius and out, the sword still in his hand. He raced up the steps to the next floor of the Jarl's longhouse as Imperial troops burst through the door, weapons at the ready. Some had bows and they quickly spotted Ulfric above them and began to shoot at him. The shots were clumsy, but as Ulfric raced along the balcony, making for a room on the opposite size, he glimpsed Tullius.  
The General was kneeling, his bow drawn back, an arrow notched. He released it and Ulfric made a bad dodge. The arrow struck his shoulder, breaking the mail, but only enough to draw blood.  
The Jarl staggered with the force of the blow, but recovered his composure and entered the room, breathing hard. He heard Tullius' cries behind him and he looked around the room, breathing heavily.  
It was a dead end, a shitty square room of failure. There was a window though and with little regard for his own safety, save a desperate need to escape the Imperial swords, Ulfric tucked the traitor sword in his belt and jumped out of the window.  
He hung in the air for a moment before he fell to the ground. It was a heavy landing, but the Jarl rolled, mud splattering his mail. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered across the main square of Falkreath.  
Fire blazed all around and men, Imperial and Nords, struggled in the mud their weapons flashing, letting out cries of pain and victory.  
Ulfric ran through the square, the stench of death choking him. He knew he needed a way out or the Imperials would trap and kill him and he needed it quickly. He shuddered at the thought and made for the nearest gate, but the battle was thickest here, the piles of bodies choking the entrance. They were mostly Stormcloaks. Ulfric turned and made for the next gate, running through alleys and slipping in the bloody mud.  
Rain had started to fall and it drenched the Jarl as he struggled through the burning town. The battle had turned into small scale skirmishes and even from here Ulfric could tell that the Stormcloaks were going to lose.  
The Jarl stumbled out of the alley and collided with a group of Stormcloak soldiers. They quickly recognised him:  
'My Jarl, what do we do?'  
'Escape;' Ulfric told them. 'Here, on me.' There were thirteen men, more than enough to break out with. 'We have to fight our way out. Stay together and fight quickly. They're here for me; we have to get out of the town or I'll be killed and our cause will fail. Understand!'  
'The battle, my Jarl!'  
'Forget the battle! It's lost; we can at least hope to return and fight another day.' Cowed into his plan they followed Ulfric without question. He led them through the town, the fires lighting their path like some muddy road to hell. The ash choked them and the rain drowned them. They scurried like rats, avoiding the Imperials, making for the south gate. It was still intact and clear, but the gate was locked tight. Ulfric wasn't concerned though; it was unguarded and untouched. They could find way out.  
His group quickly made their way across the square, and mounted the wooden battlements. The drop was only about 15 feet; he had jumped that before.  
Fuelled by adrenaline and a desire to survive he launched himself off, rolling to lessen the impact. Most of the men followed, but when a few of them refused to jump Ulfric left them.  
Their cries died behind his party as they stumbled through the woods surrounding the Hold Capital.  
It was done then; he had escaped. But at what cost? Images replayed through his mind. The dead Stormcloaks, the men left on the walls, the fire consuming the houses, and Alea's body, bleeding and alone. The grief hit and Ulfric staggered to the ground. Tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing with the rain and blood; and he let out a cry of pure anguish, the sound ripping apart his heart and making the other's stop and turn. His thu'um exploded out, bathing the area in a black glow and Ulfric screamed as the images bombarded his mind.


	32. An Aftermath

**JESUS! Since the last chapter I've had LOADS of reviews! Seriously, you can't understand how good it feels to me. Okay, here we go. Mizpinkpu posted a long and in-depth review and alerts, RaptorZeroOne posted a cool review, HereLies posted a THIRD review!, Aero l'aquila posted another great review and Imperial Hater got a little over enthusiastic, but thanks! THANK YOU ALL! I'm not even going to bug you about my polls…**

**Imperial General Tullius**

Imperial General Tullius surveyed Falkreath. _It fared well, considering the circumstances. _The rain had put out most of the flames so only a few farms and houses had been destroyed. No doubt the local populace would come to him to complain but it a hardship of war. One they themselves had created, so Tullius had no sympathy for them; they had reaped what they sowed.

He went back inside the Jarl's longhouse, which was bustling with activity. Servants were washing sheets, Falkreath soldiers were being assigned duties and generally order was being restored. To be fair to the Nords, Tullius had been able to meet up with the Jarl's Thanes, (his Bannermen; who held land in his name and in return fielded armies at his request), and they had played a crucial role in retaking the Hold. Now they had all gathered around the Jarl, being rewarded, asking favours and having their men assigned roles in the defence of the province in general. He approved; it saved Tullius work, and meant that the Count's own men would be blooded as opposed to the Legions.

Dengeir Stuhn, who had joined Ulfric when invaded, was locked in a cell where traitors belonged. For that matter, the Nord who had betrayed Stormcloak was also in a cell; Tullius didn't abide traitors, regardless of the circumstance.

Tullius made his way over to the Lord of Falkreath, who they had found inside a cell. In this regard Tullius had only had one option, and he had taken it to secure the province. It didn't mean that he was happy with it though.

The Lor-Jarl was on his throne with his knight at his side, who had also survived the battle. The General was surprised to find him in a cell. He thought the Jarl's knight's duty was to protect until death, but obviously this must be something else that he had mistaken.

Jarl Siddgeir was surrounded by his Thanes who were giving him advice, sending knights, _no, in Skyrim they are called Carls_, out to lead forces to secure strategic locations and generally getting in the way. Siddgeir had arranged for a big ceremony to award loyal supporters and heroes of the battle. Tullius was to be awarded as well, but the General didn't give a damn for any Skyrim honours but, in keeping with his 'humour them' briefing, he would accept it with good grace. Still, every time he saw the Jarl he couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like if Siddgeir had joined Ulfric; _it could only make my job easier._

Thinking of Ulfric reminded Tullius of the failure of the operation. Falkreath was an important province to be sure, but the goal had been the capture and death of Ulfric Stormcloak. Just thinking about how he had ultimately failed stung Tullius' pride. _He was mine, I had him trapped. And then the woman intervened. _

Thinking of her made Tullius' heart clench. There had been no need to kill her; it had been a sloppy move, one that came out of panic and battle lust. Tullius had given her a proper burial, in the graveyard with the heroes of Skyrim, but it pulled up emotions that had no place in war. She had fought for a cause, and in that Tullius respected her, as he did Ulfric, but the colder side of himself thought about how she could have been used against the Stormcloak Jarl. _He obviously had feelings for her and she might, __**might**__, have been the quick end to the war I need._ But she was dead now, and Tullius didn't know how to feel about that, so he put it out of his mind. _It was an unnecessary, but what is done, is done._

Tullius made his way to the Jarl, who was talking with one of his Thanes, a large man with a big, greying beard. When the General approached Siddgeir held up a hand to silence the Thane and turned to face Tullius. The General noticed that the Thane looked none too happy to have been put out over an Imperial; he knew that his presence was not welcomed by the majority of the population but they would just have to deal with it.

'General Tullius! It is a pleasure.'

Tullius bowed stiffly. 'My Jarl, the pleasure is mine.'

Siddgeir sniffed. 'Of course it is. Now, what are you here for?'

Tullius felt a twinge of anger; he had captured this city for him! As a result his answer came out pricklier than he had planned. 'I'm here to discuss the steps we must take to secure the province.'

'It's a Hold, General. Do get that straight.'

Tullius fumed. 'I will, my Jarl. Now, about defence?'

'We have the capital held down and I assure you that I have Neugrad under control,' the large man interrupted.

'And you are?' Tullius asked politely.

'Me? I am Thane Sond Long-Hand, of Helgen. My men are sweeping the entire Hold even as I speak.'

'Shouldn't you be monitoring their progress rather than trying to collect rewards that you having yet earnt.'

Siddgeir laughed and clapped his hands. 'Yes, General! Very good; do your part, and then come to me.'

Sond turned red. 'Yes, my Jarl.' He shot Tullius a look of dark fury. The General let out an inward sigh. _I seem to make as many enemies as I do steps. _

'Well General, why don't you keep the Legion here?'

The notion was absurd. 'I have a war to fight, my Jarl. I will take them back up to Solitude, and then I plan to strike at Dawnstar.'

'Yes, yes, you do.' Siddgeir spoke like it was none of his concern. _A day ago you were languishing in a cell! Now… _Tullius fumed, curses springing into his mind. _It was a waste of my time, _the General decided.

'If you would excuse me?'

'Of course, General. Go, and be here to collect your reward. Tell your men they are free to enter the capital; the Imperials will like that.'

'Yes, my Jarl. Thank you,' Tullius spat out past clenched teeth. _How did he know what his men liked! _He turned abruptly and walked quickly out of the longhouse, breathing in the fresh, snowy air. _Winter's coming to Skyrim. This can only be bad for the Legion, _Tullius thought, as Legate Cato ran up to him.

Tullius swore that boy was a Tribune a few months ago. _He must be the fastest recruit to ever jump up the ranks._ To Tullius' knowledge his birth was poor as well; he wasn't even a noble!

Cato was a tall lad with dark hair, in his early twenties, a good tactician, but overly fond of decimination and punishment. Tullius turned to meet him.

'The men have set up camp, sir,' he told the General after saluting smartly.

'Will they be ready to leave in the next few days?'

'They would appreciate a rest, sir.'  
Tullius frowned. It was true that they had marched to the limit of endurance over the last month but surely with the battle done, and a sound victory achieved they would be rearing to go. _It's just a soldier's complaint,_ Tullius thought; _nothing to worry about._  
'I want them to be ready to leave in the next two days.'

Cato looked unsure. 'Yes, sir. I will.'

'Good, I'll be in my tent should you need.' And then Tullius turned and walked off to get the first bit of decent sleep he had had in a month.

**Review guys! **


	33. Devastation

**Another chapter! I got LOADS of reviews again (thank you all) so if I forget someone in this dedication I'm sorry. Thanks to HereLies (again, man he needs a medal) for the review, RaptorZeroOne for the great review, chrisman1198 for the favourite story, and DraGGonized for a cool review, favourite author (cheers), favourite story and another review! Thank you all of you guys, it means a lot. **

**Okay, the chapter this time is a little different. It's a one off where you follow several different characters at once. Enjoy!**

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

**Ralof stumbled along behind Ulfric**, bleeding from a wound to the head. His matted blond hair clung to his head and he walked as if in a daze. The Jarl pushed then hard, his face steely, his walk determined and swift which allowed the group of ragged rebels to cover a vast swath of land each day. But even at this pace they weren't going to reach Windhelm in time. Not before the Imperials caught them in any case.

The enemy swarmed over the hillsides on horses and in small parties. Ulfric avoided them with a dogged determination, pushing the men to their limits. Ralof had only experienced defeat once, at Helgen, but otherwise he had been successful in every battle he had taken part in and it had given him a certain confidence in the Stormcloak cause, but now on the other end of a victory... Ralof could never have prepared himself for it.

Guilt clutched at his heart. _If I had just reached the Jarl earlier then this could have been avoided. But even in the battle I was a Captain; I could have led the men against the enemy, but I didn't. If I had just taken decisive action and attacked the Imperial dogs at the tunnel then I could have turned the battle in our favour,_ Ralof mused as he walked. The constant walking allowed for a lot of time to think. He could tell the Jarl was doing the same, but he must have had some demons biting at his soul. He walked hunched over and defeated, his steps heavy. He looked like he had aged ten years overnight, but then again the night had been one that none of them would forget.

The fires had burned hot and fierce. Ralof had been sure that he was in some hell and every bit of Imperial blood he spilt just seemed to infuriate the flames. He had been certain of death, even welcomed it. But Ulfric had pulled him from the edge, as he always did. But the Jarl couldn't pull himself from the edge. Not this time...

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

**Ulfric Stormcloak** **trudged along**, the images still flashing across his mind. No, searing his mind. Each rammed into his brain with the force of a hammer that had been stoked to a white hot flame. His body gave up on him but his mind didn't. Not in his dreams, not when he made a fire, not when he fought the freezing cold that bit at his body…

_Snow's falling now, covering the land in a white blanket, like a plain of death. Blank and empty, like me. Winter's come. _

The image that haunted Ulfric most was Alea. It stuck there, blotting out everything else, covering all thought. Only his anger, bubbling below the surface, kept it at bay. At _bay_ was the right word. When he let his guard down it swept in, smashing all rational thought to pieces, to the extent that Ulfric had to physically drag himself up in the morning. He needed a respite, a cure. And there lay his problem.

The traitor was probably dead; Ulfric had heard something break, but Tullius, the only other to blame was still alive. He was in Falkreath, but Ulfric couldn't deal with him yet. But soon. Soon Alea's murderers would be brought to justice. The traitor sword hung at his side, burning into his skin, reminding him of his failure and Alea's death. He had considered getting rid of it, but he needed to use it on Tullius now. It was an growing into an obsession, but he had to do it or Alea would never feel justice.

He had cleaned it on the first night on the run, wiping Alea's blood into a bottle he had taken from another Stormcloak. He had the consolation to know that only Alea's blood had touched the blade since her death. But now, Tullius and all Imperials would feel its bite.

It was a simple sword, but the steel was good and that was all Ulfric needed. It would avenge his cause and Alea's, and then it would go. He had her blood, he needed no other keepsake although he wished that he did have some other token. She had put him in the armour he still wore and that would serve as well, but the blood, it hung on his belt, wrapped in a rag; that was all he needed. And her son. Ulfric vowed to find the boy, so that one day he would rule Windhelm. _It's the least that I owe Alea; if I could find her son, I would give up my war if only to allow him to inherit Windhelm, otherwise another would be given it if I am defeated. That couldn't happen, it won't happen._ This was another oath he made himself.

These thoughts clouded his mind and his shattered body finally failed him. Ulfric fell, at the feet of a rider, covered in snow with midnight black hair, covered in grey iron chainmail and a heavy fur cloak. He looked up into the face and the blue eyes burned themselves into him.

'Ulfric Stormcloak?'

It was Jon of Solitude.

**Jon Dovahkiin**

Jon had been the first to express the shock he had felt at seeing Ulfric in front of him, sosse, _bloody,_ and dirty. Delphine had been dismissive and tried to leave them, but she obeyed Jon's order. The Blades were sworn to serve the Dovahkiin, _Dragonborn_. But even Esbern had been unsure, he who was normally open minded, and even now they watched him suspiciously from across the yol, _fire_, and their expressions clearly expressed their disapproval. But Jon ignored them.

Ulfric clearly wasn't the same man he had been when Jon last saw him. His face was hard, lined. It was vul, _dark,_ with regret and sorrow. Needless to say their reunion had been an unhappy one.

Ralof had been more accommodating. He had been given a severe blow and he was tired, but otherwise he was the man he had parted with outside Whiterun. After the initial shock and surprise they had reaffirmed their bond, and Ralof had proved good company. His laughter had combated Delphine's open hostility, but Esbern had proved to be fairly amiable, if still guarded and suspicious when he talked with the rebels.

Jon only realised his mistake after he had welcomed the rebels to lay a camp with them. The Blades had been, and were fundamentally, Imperial. Jon watched as tensions bubbled in the expressions of Delphine and Esbern. The rebels were perfectly polite, if a little blunt in their manner. _It was to be expected_, Jon supposed. _After all they have just lost an important grah, _battle_, and a large chunk of their army, judging from what Ralof has told me. _

But Jon made attempts to connect with Ulfric, to break through the spaan, _shields, _that the Jarl had amassed around himself. Every time he tried Ulfric had lashed out at him and after responding in a similar manner the first few times Jon just decided to let him stew. It was clear that something had happened in Falkreath that had caused a fundamental change on the Nord, but Jon didn't press him and in turn Ulfric ignored him. The Jarl just sat in a corner muttering, and after obtaining a whet stone, honing his blade tirelessly. He occasional used a shout to further sharpen the edge, and the sound rang out across the od, _snow_.

It was after a couple of days with the rebels, the last sul, _day, _before their departure, that Jon asked Ralof about it.

'It's Falkreath,' was the rebel's reply.

'That tells me nothing.'

'I know nothing about it, my friend.'

'I feel like I should know.'

'Why?'

'I don't know, I just… It doesn't matter.'

Ralof leaned towards Jon, his voice a whisper. 'I think it had something to do with the healer.'

'The healer?' Jon asked, curious.

'He was wounded in the battle; the first one,' he told Jon when the other Nord glanced in Ulfric's direction. 'She looked after him. The whole army suspected there was something going on, but we didn't ask.'

'Right. You think he actually cared about her?'

'Must have.'

'Krosis,' Jon cursed in draconic. The word meant sorrow, suitable for the situation Jon thought. 'Woman.' His thoughts turned to Ysold and the way she used to plough the fields, lifting her arms high to get the most out of each stroke. _She was never as strong as me. _Jon wondered how she was doing without him and the urge to return resurfaced. As always he pushed it aside, which was getting easier; something Jon was becoming afraid of, but destiny called; Alduin must be killed before he could return.

He took a walk to relieve his mind, the cool night su, _air, _washing over his face. Jon Dovahkiin stood there for a while clearing his mind, before turning back. To his surprise he found Ulfric standing there as well, a few metres from him. Jon made his way over to the Jarl who didn't register his approach.

'Ulfric?' No reply. 'Faas ni Brendon do Dinok, fah rok los qolaas do moro, ahrk ek ak wah lot Sovngarde.' _Fear not the Spectre of Death, for he is the herald of glory, and her guide to great Sovngarde. _Then Jon left Ulfric Stormcloak to his thoughts.

**Hope that was good! Remember to review and check out my poll!**


	34. Alduin's Wall

**Shor's Blood! This is one hell of a long chapter! I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed making Jon command the Blades. I hated it in the game how you were supposed to lead them, but you couldn't. That has been fixed. Anyway, on to the thanks: RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the two great reviews. TWO! And they were good. I appreciate it a lot. Thanks to the favourite author (I feel special) from SHWsaga576, the amazing and seriously long review from HereLies (I loved how you focused in each character), (oh and Ysold will prove to be a factor when killing Alduin comes to a head), and the author alert from the same guy. Thanks all! I really appreciate it, a lot! This is great!**

**Jon Dovahkiin **

**Jon Dovahkiin stepped up to the large cave, **set into the side of the Karth Mountain. Delphine moved up on his right and Esbern stood on Jon's other side.

'This is it, Dragonborn,' Esbern told Jon.

'Sky Haven Temple's in there?' Delphine asked, raising her eyebrow.

Esbern nodded.

'Then let's go.' Jon stepped into the cave, the su, _air_, almost instantly becoming humid and musty. He coughed as the Blades stepped in after him, but he shrugged it off and led them further in.

The tunnel was tight and wove through the strunmah, _mountain_, for a few minutes before they emerged into a large chamber. It was too dark for Jon to see, but Delphine and Esbern seemed to have no problem.

'Can we light some torches?' Jon asked.

'Why?' Delphine didn't seem to understand.

'I can't see that well. What; can't you?'

'Jon, I can see fine.'

Esbern interrupted. 'It's fine. I could do with some light.' The Blade pulled out some tinder and sparked it with his flint, setting a torch alight. Jon took the torch and looked around with the light.

The chamber had a raised bridge on the right side. A set of steps led up to it and on the other side was large man made buttress, obviously meant to connect to the bridge. A passage led further into mountain on the left at the top of the buttress, meaning they would have to lower the bridge to reach it. Temple columns were supporting the ceiling, and all the stonework was covered in Akaviri carvings.

Esbern jumped at the symbols. 'Look! It's ancient Akaviri, probably early 1st Era. And this, they are faded, yes, but still in remarkable condition.'

'Can we go now, Esbern; or are you planning to set up camp and live here?' Delphine asked, sarcastically.

Jon gave her an rahgron, _angry_, look, but she ignored him.

Esbern looked put out. 'Of course not. Let's get up those steps.' The old Blade led the way up to the top of the steps where a fair sized platform held three strange rotators, each with three sides.

Esbern moved over to them and began to examine them; 'We have the symbol for King, the one that looks like ceremonial bowl with stylized fire around it, Warrior; the one that looks like a pair of horns and-'

'Dovahkiin.' Jon said, looking at the symbol that looked like two dov, _dragon,_ heads with an arrow in between them. Jon began to turn them, so that the Dragonborn symbol faced forward. A deep boom sounded, like something had been dropped. The bridge next to them fell with a crash and a shower of dust.

Delphine moved to it quickly, and tested its weight. 'It's good. Let's go.' She took the lead and quickly raced across, making it into the tunnel. Jon and Esbern followed more cautiously.

**They found her stopped outside the tunnel**. Sos, _blood,_ lined the walls.

'What's this?'

'I don't know. It doesn't look good though.'

Esbern spoke up; 'I suspect that it's another trap. We just have to find out what it is.'

Jon moved closer, scouring the walls for any sign of holes or cracks that could be a trap. He was tempted to put his foot on the first patch of sos, but his throat was tightening, and he stepped back.

'Anything?' Delphine asked, approaching warily.

'No, not yet. We need a way to spring it.' Jon looked around him for a stone. None were present and so he reached for his bow instead.

'What are you doing?' Delphine asked him, annoyingly.

Jon looked at her. 'Ov gir, _trust me_,' and then he turned back to look around the walls. He pulled out an arrow and nocked it, aiming at a section of ground on the other side of the tunnel. The Dragonborn pulled and let go quickly, making the arrow shoot across the space. It bounced off the floor, its tip shattering, and the response was instant.

Darts shot out across the section where the arrow had hit, presumably decimating the unfortunate adventurer. Jon Dovahkiin stepped back, as Esbern moved forward.

'We need to find a way across without touching the floor,' he told them, in his wisdom. Jon sighed; he had been hoping for more.

Delphine spoke; 'I have a rope; we could string it across the gap and then-'

'Nid, _no,_' Jon said, cutting across her. 'It would take too long and we can't be guaranteed success. I have a better idea.'

'And what's that?' Delphine asked, sarcastically.

Jon stared at her, regarding her carefully until she became uncomfortable, and then turned back. _Delphine has become insolent and uncooperative recently. Is it my leadership, or just a personality trait I overlooked earlier? _Jon resolved to ask Esbern later; after all he knew her best. But for now he had a puzzle to solve, and he thought he knew exactly how.

'This may feel strange. Just stay still whatever happens.' Delphine began to protest, but Jon let out a shout; 'Tiid, Klo, Ul.' Time around him slowed, and Jon began to feel sluggish, like he was wading through thick mud. Delphine and Esbern stopped almost completely and Jon hoped that the thu'um would work for long enough so that he could do what he intended to.

The Dragonborn faced the tunnel, and without further thought as to his own safety, he ran out into the blood lined trap. He ran as fast as he could, slowed by the thu'um and sudden thickness of the air, over the pressure plates.

The sound came out as fast as ever and for a moment Jon thought that the shout had failed. Thankfully he was wrong; the darts were only just emerging from the holes in the wall.

He ran forward, past the holes which sprung to life as he stepped on them. The darts began to catch him up as he felt the thu'um waver. He didn't look back to see what the Blades were doing; he just ran.

Jon was nearly there when the shout ended, the world losing its sludgy feel, and the darts sprung out with a crack. He didn't think, instead he dived for the end, the shouts of the Blades ringing in his ears. The darts caught him, shattering on his chainmail, but some caught him in the leg tearing his skin. The Dragonborn fell, skidding across the ground as a final attempt to kill him dropped down; a massive blade. It struck the ground, just after his outspread legs, shaking the tunnel and causing loose dust to fall down onto Jon. He coughed and looked himself over. He was alive.

The darts had skated off his greaves, but his legs had been hit and they were bleeding badly. Yol, _fire,_ coursed through them, but Jon gritted his teeth against the pain. His mail had deflected the other blows, but he could feel several bruises beginning to appear across his chest. Luckily though, his face had remained unscathed, so he took some solace in that. And he had beaten the trap.

Jon pushed himself to his feet, his legs protesting against the pain but he ignored it. The Blades were calling across at him, asking whether he was alright.

'I'm fine! Wait there.' Jon looked around and found what he was looking for without too much trouble; a lever. He pulled it hard, as it was stuck with bok, _age_, and it cracked down, causing a rumble to echo through the tunnel.

'That should do it!' Jon called across, and after some hesitation the Blades came over to his side. Esbern was the first to notice his wound:

'Can you continue?'

'I'm fine. I can still do all that is required, it just hurts like Shor's Blood!' Jon cursed through gritted teeth.

Esbern nodded and Jon Dovahkiin continued further up the tunnel cautiously. Delphine stepped lightly next to him, her impulse to move quickly leashed a little. Esbern brought up the rear, his dagger bumping against his thigh.

**The tunnel levelled out and widened**, revealing a wide chamber. Tiles covered the floor, all identical. Jon stopped and studied the tiles; there appeared to be no difference between them.

'What do we do?' Delphine asked.

'Step on the tiles,' Jon said. 'And get across to the other side.'

'No, I think that it's more complicated than that.' Esbern told them, as he examined a tile in front of him. 'I suspect that stepping on the wrong tile will cause another trap to spring.'

Delphine nodded. 'You're right Esbern. It's unlikely that it would be as simple as Jon suggested; more likely these tiles are a puzzle of sorts.'

'Exactly! We just need to work out the pattern,' Esbern crowed.

Jon knelt next to him. 'I see no patterns. It would be very hard to actually pick out one if they are all the same.'

The group separated and each of them began to investigate the chamber, and tiles, for any sign of a pattern. Jon became frustrated; he couldn't see anything that they could suggest a way past the puzzle. 'Krosis!' he cursed in draconic, and stood again, looking around to see how the others were doing.

Esbern was running his haal, _hands_, along one of walls that didn't mean he had to step on the tiles, looking more and more frustrated as he did so. Delphine meanwhile, was pressed against the ground lining up the tiles surface with her eyesight. Her face lit up and she quickly raised herself.

'I think I've found the pattern. Come here.' The Dragonborn and Blade moved over to her and she crouched again. 'The tiles aren't all the same height. See, if you look closely there's a slight difference. The ones we have to step on are higher than the others.'

Jon looked over the tiles but he saw nothing. Esbern on the other hand appeared to bec0me very excited and he started to point out where they were. Jon was becoming very confused now and he tried to see it for himself, but still nothing vah, _sprang_, out at him.

'I don't see it,' he stated.

Delphine frowned. 'It's there. See, if you look there's a slight shadow differ-'

'You don't understand Delphine,' Esbern told her, looking like something had been confirmed. 'I have a feeling it's something to do with Jon's blood. He turned to the Dragonborn. 'Your eyes can withstand remarkable intensity in regard to light, yes?'

Jon was baffled, but he answered anyway, thinking back to Alduin's fire. 'Yes, that's true.'

Esbern nodded, as if something had just been confirmed. 'I think this is related to other… _aspects_ of your eyes. For example, your ones are better than ours aren't they? They are sharper, to pick out dragons would be my guess, and they can withstand light that we cannot, so that you are not blinded by the light of their breath. But equally you have a little more difficulty in the dark, as you have already demonstrated earlier in the tunnel, and I think, like a true dragon would be my guess, that you have a problem in regard to dimensions. It's probably something that helps dragons to fly, but as the Dragonborn you too have, er, 'inherited' these traits. It's immensely interesting-'

'Right, Esbern. That is interesting.' Jon noticed that Delphine looked almost happy to have something over on him. He was sure that he had imagined it, but his throat tightened a little. It appeared that there was more to Delphine than he had originally thought.

'So, I'm going to have to cross this trap?' Delphine asked.

'It likes like you will,' Jon admitted, still a little disconcerted.

'Fine, wish me luck.' Delphine turned to the trap and put one foot gingerly on the first tile. It sunk down with a rumble, but otherwise it held still. The Blade looked visibly relieved and she took another step, with also proved to be safe.

The group let out their su'um, _breath_, collectively. 'Ok, Delphine,' Jon held out a hand. 'Don't get too confident; be careful.'

Delphine shot him an liz, _icy_, stare, but Esbern shouted out his agreement. Jon was shocked by the look though and he turned away. A small, smug smile crept along her lips and she returned to her task.

_I'm definitely going to have to watch Delphine now. Something isn't right. _But Jon had more pressing problems and he turned his attention back to her, who was pulling the switch on the far side. The tiles visibly flattened and the two others followed Delphine through to the next room.

It was another tunnel, not a room, and it stretched for a short distance. It wasn't that long, but Delphine continued on heedless to any kind of trap. Jon quickly glanced across the tunnel, throwing the light of his torch over it. _Holes in the floor. _The stench of gas hit him and he shouted to Delphine to stop. She ignored him and Jon dropped his torch as it suddenly evaneer, _exploded_, and burnt up his arm. Luckily his skin protected him, but his sleeve caught alight and he batted it out quickly.

Esbern had noticed the danger and he threw his torch away as it burst too. He shouted to the other Blade, but she didn't hear then. Jon ran for her, as her torch blew up. Delphine was thrown against the wall, and the torch hit the floor. Yol,_ fire_, burst out of the holes and raced towards Delphine. The yol hit her like a heat wave, and she knew that the end would be painfully. She tightened herself up as a rough hand grabbed her and threw her aside.

Jon Dovahkiin discarded his cloak which had caught fire, and was burning quickly up his back. He pulled it off and thrust it aside, steeping back deftly as more fires roared out of the holes when the burning cloth and fur hit the floor.

He turned to Delphine, towering tall over her as she was struggling to rise and fixed her with a penetrating stare. 'Listen, or leave. We have no time for foolishness.'

The Blade swallowed and Dovahkiin stepped aside to let Esbern pass. 'It appears to have been depended on torches to have been lit,' he told Jon.

Jon nodded and walked beside Esbern, leaving Delphine to pick herself up.

**The group walked up the final stretch and emerged into a huge chamber. **The walls were solid rock face, presumably the mountain, but on one side, that opposite to the exit of the tunnel, had been painstakingly carved into the wall of a fortress.

There were no fires burning on the walls, but slit like windows lined the wall, too small to get through, but otherwise good for shooting arrows at an enemy. There were about twenty lining the wall which reached up a good one hundred feet at least. It was covered in Akaviri art and small holes dotted strategic spots, obviously for pouring burning oil through. In this chamber the strunmah, _mountain_, opened and light poured into the courtyard; _because that's what it is_, Jon realised, but now it was covered with vegetation.

In the centre of the wall was a stone face, presumably guarding the entrance. It reached up about a good thirty feet.

'That's Reman, the Emperor who commissioned the Wall,' Esbern said. He walked up to it and began to examine it. It was a long face, bald, but with a regal quality. Above all else it was imposing.

In front of it, about twenty feet away, was a large circle embossed with the symbol of the Dragonborn. Jon stepped closer to get a better look at it.

Delphine also went to look at it. 'Esbern, what is this?'

The Blade archivist moved over to it as well. 'It's a seal. It has the Dragonborn's symbol on it, but otherwise I have no idea why it's here.'

'I do.' Jon had studied it and a strange yearning, like a half-buried feeling came over him.'Sossedov fen govey luft.' _Dragonblood will remove the face. I need to spill some blood over it! _

Jon pushed his way forward. 'Get away,' he commanded the Blades. They stepped back and Jon pulled out his dagger. Before he lost his ahkrin, _courage_, he sliced open his palm. Silver-specked blood ran down his hand and onto the seal. Jon tore off some of his burnt sleeve and wrapped the wound as the seal vibrated and a burst of energy, a replica to Jon's shouts, emerged from the lines and grooves of the seal, racing across the entire courtyard. The face began to lift and as it did so, an entrance was revealed. Two double doors, embossed with the Dragonborn symbol, and made of solid stone stood at the top of a short flight of steps.

'Here, give me one of the spare torches,' Jon reached out a hand, his uninjured one, and breathed a soft word of draconic over it. Fire, flew from his lips and lit the torch. The Blades, already unnerved by his display of sos, _blood_, letting and magic stepped back.

'Come on,' Jon strode to the entrance and pushed open one of the doors, which still moved easily, and led the way in.

**There was a long, spiralling staircase **and braziers on the way up the stairs. The place was cold, but the air was surprisingly clear. Jon lit the braziers with his torch as he led the way up.

The chamber they emerged into was large, obviously the Main Hall. To the left was an entrance that Jon saw led into an armoury, complete with Blade specific weaponry and armour. A set of wide steps led to the next floor, but the main chamber had the reason for their coming here. Set up above all else on a raised section of the floor was Alduin's Wall.

Jon stepped past a large stone dining table and up to it. It was impressive, carved of a silvery stone with beautiful Akaviri/Nordic images. The wall listed all dragon lore; some pictures were small, such as dragon breathing a breath that was clearly yol, _fire,_ and another that was breathing a breath that looked like fo, _frost_. Lots of little images like this lined the sides, the Wall reaching up about 15 feet, depicting all manner of dragon abilities. But the main part was dedicated to the history of Alduin and the qostiid, _prophecy_, of the Dragonborn.

It started on the left side of the wall, showing dov, _dragons_, coming to Tamriel and enslaving humans, all in a beautiful and detailed carvings completely untouched by time. It led on, showing a dragon teaching men the Way of the Voice and in the centre the first defeat of Alduin. _That was it! They had used a shout_, Jon reflected. Alduin was seen falling from the sky, tied by shifting weights on his wings, which looked deformed as if broken. _So, they got him to land. That's how they did it. _Jon moved on as Esbern rattled on excitedly in the background. Even Delphine was studying parts with enthusiasm.

But Jon was interested in his fate. He moved to the end and there it was; the last Dragonborn.

There were no features of Jon's in him, after all he was merely a symbol on the Wall, but he was dressed Nordic armour. He held a strange sword, not a Katana, but definitely another example of the Nordic style. The Dragonborn was seen blocking fire from Alduin, even as he unleashed a shout that almost reached the World Eater. _So, my fate is still my own. _Jon felt relieved, but a little let down. He supposed it was good that there was no definite outcome, but still…

'It's amazing isn't it?' Delphine was next to him.

Jon looked at her. 'Yes, it is. Did you see it? They used a thu'um; a shout.'

Delphine nodded grimly. 'I saw it. I know nothing about shouts, and neither does Esbern really. It means that there is only one course; you have to talk the Greybeards.'

'That's fine. I'm welcome in High Hrothgar.'

Delphine raised her eyebrows. 'Are you? Truly? Why do you think they have always insisted on training the Dragonborn?'

'They have a great knowledge of shouts.' Jon didn't like where this was going.

'They want to _control_ you,' Delphine exploded unexpectedly; 'to have power over you, Jon!If it was up to them you would do nothing but talk to the sky. If they had their way, the Empire would never have existed and Talos would have never have been made a god. Could you imagine a world without that?'

Jon wasn't sure, but he imagined that Ulfric could, if he thought about anything but that woman now. 'The Greybeards only want to help!' Jon said instead, his rahgron, _anger_, rising.

'You don't understand.'

'I understand everything! You want to control me, Delphine! That's why you've become so possessive all of the sudden,' Jon's anger was out of control now.

'They're scared of you!' She slumped, like all the effort she had put into those words had drained her.

Jon's anger evaporated. He felt like a milk drinker; _the Greybeards are scared of me?_ He thought back, the looks, the careful caution around his temper when he failed at something consistently. It was true, and Delphine was right.

'Look, Delphine; you're right. I'm sorry for lashing out.'

'Don't trust the Greybeards, Jon,' she said tightly.

He nodded. 'I'll be careful, I promise. But in any case, this is a Blade fortress. Do you realise what this means? It's secret and defendable, and a good place to rebuild, so I've decided to do something that I've been thinking about for a while: I'm reviving the Blades. At the moment you stand at two, and both of you have told me that the Dovahkiin, or Dragonborn as you know it, is Head of the Blades, and that you are sworn to protect me.' He looked at them. Delphine was looking slightly sullen, but Esbern was nodding with enthusiasm. 'Here, in Sky Haven Temple, the new Blades will act as they used to; they will serve the Dragonborn. Any mortal who possesses the Zul, the Voice, shall become Grandmaster, but the Blades will be allowed to vote on this. And so with your support, I would take the mantle of Grandmaster and act as Head of the Blades until my death, to restore them to their rightful purpose. Do I have your swords?'

He looked at them, wondering if this had been a stupid gamble. The Blades were silent, but then Esbern spoke up; 'It would be an honour, Lord Grandmaster.'

Jon looked to Delphine, who stepped up and, with some effort said; 'It would be an honour, Lord Grandmaster.'

Jon hid his delight, keeping his face impassive. 'Good. Now, to revive the Blades; kneel, both of you.'

They did, warily, and Jon drew his sword. 'From now on, all true Blades shall be granted the title Tuz, which means Blade in draconic.' He knighted then, and bid they rise. 'Tuz Delphine, I appoint you Blade Master. You shall command the Blades in my absence and deal with the maintenance of Sky Haven Temple and recruitment. In other words, my second-in-command. You, Tuz Esbern shall act as Head Archivist. I suspect that there are great sources of knowledge in this Temple, a library perhaps; it is your job to find, protect and record these. Together, spread the word, find individuals and former Blades. Build them to be strong and to fulfil their true purpose: the hunting of dragons. I'm going to High Hrothgar to meet my destiny. I may not return, but if I don't, I have a son. He may possess the power of the thu'um. If I die, find him and my wife in Rorikstead. Tell them why, make them understand. Until then I wish you the best of luck.'

'Hail, the Dragonborn!' Esbern said and Jon swept from the room, leaving the Blades with their duties, his heart as heavy as the stone he strode over.

**That was long. Took a long time to edit. I hope none of it was rushed of too uneven in any place. Remember to review, even if you hate it!**


	35. Caught Between A Rock And A Hard Place

**Before I get started, I have some thanks to dish out. Firstly, to Foacir, who posted a story alert and a review! (Which was very good, with lots of depth to it.) Secondly to RaptorZeroOne who posted a great review, (thanks for the whole it gets better thing. Not sure about this chapter, but hopefully its good.) Thanks to tobisenpai0014 for the story alert and HowYouRemindMe for the rocking review! (Yep, I'm trying to draw inspiration from A Song of Ice and Fire- which will become more prominent later.) A big thanks to HereLies for the review about the Blades which I found interesting to read and cheers to (I'm running out of ways to thanks people, but if you post more reviews I WILL find loads of cool ways) to The Final Memory (cool name) for the story alert. **

**Also I forgot to put in a fact about my lore for every intro bit. Okay, here goes: Grass in Skyrim is a weird, yellowy colour. **

**Anyway, here you go! Not sure about this one, but I hope its good!**

**Imperial General Tullius **

'**Solitude is about two weeks away, sir,' **Legate Cato told Imperial General Tullius.

'Good. The thought of what those Lords-'

'Thanes, sir,' Cato told him, respectfully.

'Yes, Thanes.' Tullius repeated irritably. 'Whatever their title, I'm not looking forward to seeing what they've done in the capital during my absence.'

'I agree, sir. Jarl Elisif is a, somewhat _young_ ruler. I don't think that we shall be well liked on our return.'

'I won a capital for them,' Tullius grumbled; 'Nords love a good victory.'

'Actually sir, that is more like the men and woman of the Imperial City.'

'The vultures of the Imperial City you mean. I thought Nords liked a good victory.'

'One they had a part in, sir. The Nords in Solitude are more Imperialistic than other perhaps, but still: they are Nords.'

Tullius leaned on his war table in his tent, raising his eyebrows. 'Really?'

Cato nodded.

Just then a Tribune entered the tent, breathing hard.

'Stand and report.' Tullius told him, looking up from the table.

The Tribune took several long breathes. 'All the catapults have been sent ahead, sir, as requested and the vanguard are moving off as I speak.'

Tullius nodded. 'Good.' The man turned to leave, but Tullius held out a hand. 'Why did you need to run to tell me that?'

'It was important, sir.'

'So is an image. _Walk_ fast next time. You're dismissed.'

The Tribune moved to the entrance but Tullius held out his hand again. 'I admire your enthusiasm. Don't change that.' He favoured the Tribune with a small smile and waved his hand. The man left.

General Tullius turned back to Legate Cato. 'Well?

'Excuse me, sir?'

Tullius turned to face him. 'These are the men of tomorrow. What do you think?'

'He seems, capable.'

Tullius snorted softly; 'Capable. Is that it? We need imaginative, practical men. Unlike myself. I hate to say it, but more like Stormcloak, damn him.' He looked up at Cato. 'This is the final campaign, Legate. After this I'm returning to Cyrodiil; I'm done with war,' he told the Legate unexpectedly.

'Assuming you make it home,' Cato said quietly.

Tullius stared at him. 'You can leave, Legate,' he told Cato, icily.

Cato saluted smartly and left, leaving Tullius with his thoughts.

_**Certainly, I might never make it back**_**, **Tullius reflected. Ulfric had proved to be a more determined and capable foe than originally anticipated. _No matter; he will die like the rest of them, with his head on a pike. Like that Stormcloak traitor, _Tullius reassured himself. 

It had turned out that Ulfric's magic had been deliberating, and after his spine had been broken, so too had his life shortly followed. _Died in his cell. Some would call it an escape. _Honestly Tullius was pleased he was dead. He had no time for traitors, and now everyone knew what happened in regard to disloyalty in the Empire.

The General decided that there was no point in staying in his tent, so instead he had his squire mount his horse and then he took a ride up to see how the preparations for the march were going.

As always Tullius was pleased to note that his men were quick and obedient; the best legionnaires in the whole Empire. _Surely they had the strength to destroy Ulfric? If they don't, well it doesn't do well boding,_ and Tullius continued through the camp.

The catapults were moving out like the Tribune had said, but there were still a fair number, at least four out of the ten he had brought, still in the camp with no sign that they were being packed up at all.

Tullius dismounted angrily and strode over to where the mechanics were resting against the assorted timber. When they saw the Commanding Officer striding over to them they hurriedly straightened to attention.

'Enjoying yourselves?' Tullius asked them, tightly, his voice as dark as thunder.

'No, sir,' one of them spluttered.

Tullius glanced over at the catapults, one of which was not even deconstructed. 'This looks like you are disobeying orders.'

The Imperial man paled. 'No, sir. That's not what it is.'

'I think it is. You are the Head Engineer here?'

The man looked like he was ready to fake his identity, but then he sagged and nodded.

General Tullius straightened. He motioned to his guard; four burly men. 'Take him to the stocks. Who is the Second?'

A man stepped forward. 'Me, sir.'

'You are in charge. See that these catapults are packed, ready to join the march.' He turned to another of his guard. 'See that the Legates know that we are going to march in two hours. Dismissed.' The men ran off to complete their respective tasks and Tullius mounted his horse, wheeling it around back to his tent.

When he arrived back at his tent he was pleased to see that it was already being packed up. _Military discipline. Without it, the Legions are nothing, _he thought, satisfied.

Snow had begun to fall, and Tullius realised that they needed to get to Solitude soon, or risk being stuck in a snowstorm. Recently, the weather had become brutal. He had quickly found out that it could be deadly and they needed to get to Solitude quickly, or else risk being dissimilated by the cold. He turned his horse to find his Legates.

**It hit them when they were three days from the Capital. **It hit hard, the snow swirling around them, tearing at their clothes. Tullius fought his way through the snow, on his horse, wrapped his heavy military cloak. He spotted Legates Quintus and Cato on horses nearby, trying to encourage the men to move quicker.

They had been in the storm for four days now and the men were losing hope of an escape. Morale had dried up, and angry looks were passed down the line as he passed. Their supplies were drying up, having only packed for a quick march, and most of it had been gone when the storms hit. Tullius realised he was about to have a serious problem.

'How many?' Tullius shouted at the Legates when he drew near.

'Ten dead this morning alone. That's at least fifty now. Two have gotten frostbite.'

A cold, deeper than that of the winds outside his body, crept up his legs. _Skyrim is arrayed against me… _He dare not say that openly; _the men were already on the verge of mutiny, and an omen was all the superstitious Nords needed to rebel._

'Send out a man for help. We need to break through this snow!' Tullius bellowed.

'I can go, sir!' Quintus told him.

Tullius was in no mood to argue. He needed his officers, but he needed help more. 'Go, and Talos be with you!'

The men looked at him. Talos had been banned in the Empire because of the Thalmor. To speak of him was a hanging offence, but he saw the looks and seized the chance.

'Fuck the Thalmor. Do you hear me! FUCK THE THALMOR! Pray to Talos and hope he pities what we have become.' The men started repeating a chant to Talos and Tullius raised himself in his saddle. The storm was fierce; they would need a miracle to survive. _Who cares about treaties, and Emperors?_ 'TALOS!' Tullius screamed. 'Pray to Talos and fuck the Thalmor! We're all dead anyway!' The cold descended with an increased fury. 'TALOS! TALOS!'

**REVIEW, remember to review! And check out my polls and er, I should just be happy that you read this far, Oh, well, you're here now: REVIEW!**


	36. To End A War

**I got so many reviews, I think I'm going to cry. It was brilliant, like a shower of money. Here they are: thanks to Y-ko for the review (which was a little weird, but still), a MASSIVE thanks to Foacir for his great review which pointed out interesting stuff (Tullius' snow adventure _is_ like Stannis'). Thanks to HereLies for his amazing review where he assessed the Civil War (I love reading it) and RaptorZeroOne for a nice review which made me warm inside. Thanks to blackwind2254 for the Story alert and favourite story and REVIEW! Cheers! I like the twists too. I love reading Mizpinkypu's decidedly more Tullius supporting review than others (Imperial-Hater's for example). Glad someone kind of likes him. HowYouRemindMe did an psychoanalysis on Tullius, which was nice and Beregon posted a story alert. DraGGonized posted an awesome review about fucking the Thalmor. (Er, not in that sense. Sorry, DraG.) Finally, thanks to TheOneAndOnlyEnigma (another cool name) for the favourite story and alert! **

**Whew! What a list. If you guys review like that again, I WILL get the chapter out in a two days max. **

**Anyway, thanks all. Also, to Foacir who basically gave me the idea for the whole chapter, thanks. Literally, this chapter would not exist as it does now. **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**The Niben was red. **It was the 30th of Rain's Hand and General Jonna was preparing to attack. Ulfric Stormcloak, not a Jarl, or Thane, marched beside his fellow Nords, in the Empire's livery, his heart pounding and his mouth watering with anticipation.

The Imperial City stood stark in front of them, a couple of miles off. It had been under Aldmeri control for months, but now the Emperor had ordered the attack. They were to surround the city, and liberate it or die. It was going to be a glorious day…

**They had struck, **slamming into any Elven resistance in an attempt to meet up with the other Legions and surround the Elves. They fell to Ulfric's axe as he carved a bloody path through the Aldmeri, dodging their magic, taking hits on his shield. Blood ran down the banks of the Niben.

A force of Elves had tried to attack them from behind, to reinforce their allies, but they had pushed them back; destroyed them! Ulfric had fought bravely, he could say that without any arguments. When the Elven forces had broken their line Ulfric had led the defence, marshalling the men around him to fight, egging them on, shaming them; whatever worked. He had reformed the line, and shouted and screamed until his voice was hoarse.

**When they had taken the capital back, **it had been a special moment. General Jonna had recorded his heroic attempt at reforming and holding the line and it was such a feat that Ulfric stood in front of the Emperor in the victory celebrations in White-Gold Tower.

The Emperor had been brave and strong, a true leader. His head was shiny, but he was in his forties, powerful and tall, for an Imperial. There, in keeping with an Empire that honoured the traditions of their provinces, he had received his Carlhood (the Nordic version of a knighthood) at the hand of the Emperor himself, rising as Carl Ulfric Stormcloak. His father would have been proud. Alea would have been proud.

**He had met her in the Imperial City. **Ulfric had been part of a detachment sent ahead to reinforce the city. Little did they know that they would be beaten back anyway, and the city lost, but that hadn't troubled them; they didn't know, and in the months that led up to the Sack of the Imperial City Ulfric had courted Alea.

Alea had appeared as a serving girl, working for the Legions while they stayed in the city. It was Ulfric's good luck that they had met and that she had been one of his cohort's servants. When Ulfric had first met her she had been fifteen, light-haired and beautiful. Naturally Ulfric had brought forward his claim to Windhelm, but she hadn't paid attention to him at first, something which riled Ulfric's pride.

He had spent the next two weeks attempting to get her to notice him, which she deliberately ignored and later retaliated to, even serving him reduced rations with the claim that the piggy hadn't needed them. To be fair, Ulfric hadn't been fat, but he had been large, like now, towering over everyone and everything, even though he too was only fifteen. Ulfric hadn't given up, even staging mock fights where he was ganged up on by three of his Nord friends. Unfortunately, Alea had cheered for his friends. Bitch.

When it had turned out that this wasn't working, Ulfric moved to his next plan. Skill in combat was crucial in Nordic society, and Alea was a Nord, an attractive one, but a Nord nonetheless. Ulfric had displayed his superb skills with sword and axe, swinging them underarm, throwing them, disarming various opponents. She had taken an interest in that, but only to tell him that his stance was wrong. When Ulfric had asked her to show him, she had replied with a suitably scathing, yet racy, remark that made Ulfric blush and fume. Needless to say, he gave up on that.

His next scheme was to write poetry, something that he was decidedly bad at. But this had gotten through to her and so they had started a friendship based on teaching Ulfric poetry. He listened just long enough to improve, but otherwise he spent the sessions admiring her breasts and hips and scrawling down doodles which he was glad she had never had a look at. He was a teenager, and he acted like one.

Eventually, one month from the attack, Ulfric had managed to lure her into a trap. He been writing his poetry and, using his newfound talent, he wrote a poem dedicated to her. At this point Alea took him seriously as a suitor and when Ulfric proved his heritage using a ring given by him, from his father, she had leapt at the chance to 'date' him. One thing had led to another and then Ulfric was getting complains from his bunkmates about the noises they heard in the night.

His comrades were aware of what was happening and they had done the nice thing; they kicked him out of the bunks. Ulfric had taken down two of them, but the rest overwhelmed him. _It wasn't my biggest loss_, he thought in retrospect, and he had instead moved into Alea's room in a small hotel nearby; the servants in the Legion being given better treatment that the men. There, his son was conceived.

Alea had been shy at first, but when Ulfric had taken her maidenhead, she had become much more open and flirty. During the day, as Ulfric polished his boots, they would discuss the plans for the night. Occasionally, she would deny him, to keep Ulfric under her leash, but he couldn't say that he hadn't loved every moment of it.

Then the sack happened, and his capture at Aldmeri hands. His screams reverberated through his mind, jolting him awake.

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak woke **drenched in sweat. He sat back, and let the tears roll again. Alea was gone, and worse, Ulfric hadn't even tried to save her. At least during the Sack he had ignored his orders and ran for her house. It was in that street that he had been captured, but Ulfric thrust the thoughts from his mind. They hurt too much.

Instead he pulled on his shirt and breeches, and some boots and stumbled downstairs to see if Galmar was awake.

He was right; Carl Galmar stood at the war map, overlooking the lands. At Ulfric's approach he turned.

'Ulfric, you look like shit. Did you sleep well?'

'No, I didn't. What are you doing awake at this hour?'

'Planning your campaigns, my Jarl.'

'Even you need rest. Go.'

Galmar shot him an odd look, but he climbed the steps anyway. Ulfric slumped on the map, in no mood to explain himself. Occasionally his dreams got the best of him, and he did things to try and relieve himself of any feeling but it didn't always work.

Instead Ulfric turned his sleepy eyes onto the map. He traced a finger from Windhelm to Solitude. _It's so far. Solitude is protected by Dragons Bridge __**and**__ the Imperial Navy, at the sea._ Only Solitude, Windhelm and Dawnstar had fleets… and Dawnstar was a Stormcloak ally. By Talos! An attack at sea! Tullius would never suspect it, and if they trapped him, then the war was as good as over. Not to mention that Alea had claimed that his son might still be in the capital.

Ulfric let out a massive whoop and turned back to the map, pulling a dagger from the side of the table and marking the city, stabbing the dagger deep into the wood. It was time to end the war…

**Review guys! Please! (Also check out the poll, but most importantly, REVIEW!)**


	37. Paarthurnax

**Okay, the next chapter. **

**Anyway, a big thanks to HereLies, who wrote a great 'comment' about the chapter, which really assessed loads of it! He also gave me a great idea… Secondly, to RaptorZeroOne, who wrote the review about Ulfric's son. (Always great to read so I can look at rumours that er going around.) Next to HowYouRemindMe, who gave me another great idea which will be used eventually, I just have to fit it in. Also, thanks to Foacir for the author alert (new stories will be coming out soon, as well as my flagship, 'Seasons', aka this story.) And thanks for liking what was essentially his work, seeing as he gave me everything I needed for the chapter. Look at Ch. 36. See that last bit; _that's_ my bit; the end sentence. Finally, thanks to DraGGonized; I don't care that it is short, I love it anyway. **

**Okay, I loved this chapter and I'm gonna love the next few ones even more. You'll see…**

**Jon Dovahkiin**

**Jon Dovahkiin** strode into the monastery, his cloak flapping behind him. The Main Hall was empty, so Jon took a left and made his way down the twisting corridors, searching for Argneir.

'Argneir! Where are you?' Jon turned the next corner and came across him, waiting in a chair by a small table. A book lay opened in front of him.

'Yes?'

Jon put down his annoyance and moved towards the old monk. 'I need to know something. It's very important; do you know the thu'um that viik, _defeated,_ Alduin?'

Argneir's face darkened and he closed his book. 'Why?'

'Because it's the only way to defeat Alduin,' Jon told him.

'Who told you this?' Argneir's voice was icy.

Jon stared at the monk, determined to back him down. 'The Blades.'

Argneir exploded, standing up suddenly. 'Those meddlesome usurps! They have no comprehension of what they are doing! Krosis! Why are you with them? No, I don't care. You have been misguided and controlled. It's a poor fate, but one to be expected from a lesser man.'

Jon's rahgot, _anger_, boiled over and he exploded in turn. 'Lesser man! I am NO PUPPET! At least the Blades have tried to help me!'

'You are not ready!'

'Tell me true Argneir; when were you planning to tell me!' Jon thundered. 'After I was dead? Or when a hero of your _choice_ turned up!' Jon's voice dropped, menacingly calm. '_Tell me.' _

Fear flashed across the old monk's face, before it returned to its smug calm.

Jon's throat tightened, and he turned. The other Greybeards stood around him. 'This is foolish, Argneir,' he told the monk. 'You know that I could still best you all, even now.'

One of the other Greybeards began to talk, his thu'um echoing through the room…

'Silence,' Jon said, his voice rippling across the room. The Greybeard tightened, unable to speak, and Jon turned back to Argneir. 'I need to know.'

The energy sagged from the Greybeard and he sat. 'Please, take a seat.'

Jon nodded, his anger evaporated, and sat. 'Tell me. I _need_ to know.'

'I don't know it.' The truth looked like it was painful for the old monk to admit. 'I don't care for it either. It is a dark shout, one that should never have been taught.'

Jon nodded. 'Where can I learn it?'

Argneir looked up at him. 'It is time you met our leader, Paarthurnax.'

**Jon stood out in the winter air. **The snow was heavy, but he didn't feel it. Argneir stood next to him, his robes swirling around his body.

'The path is dangerous, for those who lack the proper means.'

'And how can I reach it?' Jon said curtly.

'The snow is thick, but remember your voice, Dovahkiin, your thu'um. With it you can move mountains.' The Greybeard retreated and left Jon alone.

The Dovahkiin turned to the strunmah, _mountain_, path and stepped into the blizzard. Instantly, the snow encased his cloak, turning it white and frosting his hair. He stumbled out of it quickly, dazed by the impact of the magical snowstorm.

Jon coughed out some snow and faced the path again. _How can I get rid of this fog? Argneir said use my voice, but am I even that powerful?_ _I'll have to try._

He summoned his strength and selected several rotmulaag, _words of power_, before attempting to use his new shout. His thu'um boomed, but to little effect, merely pushing the snow away before it engulfed the path again. Jon retried it, with more feeling, but the results were almost the same. Jon decided that he needed to commit to the thu'um, and reached down inside himself, drawing out his strength, forcing it up his throat. He struggled with it and muttered the words. This time it worked.

The snow was blasted away, flying into the abyss, pushed by the blue and silver energy. Jon's throat felt a little raw, but nothing he couldn't handle. He stepped up the path, treading carefully.

**It only took his ten minutes to reach the top. **The climb had been hard though, and Jon was breathing heavily. He rested his hands on his knees before gulping in fresh, summit su, _air_, and walking forward, into a large clearing dusted in snow. He felt stone beneath his feet and here the blizzard was gone, but it still swirled around the peak viciously. Obviously powerful magic was at work. Jon shuddered.

He took a look around, but noticed nothing of interest, except a large, broken wall covered in draconic. Jon approached it, warily, his hand on his zahkrii, _sword_, when the wind picked up. It blew at his hair and cloak, nearly pulling Jon of his feet. He tried to grip the snow as a shockwave knocked him back down.

Jon pulled himself up, wincing at the dull pain, and looked up into the face of a dragon.

It was massive, at least as big as Alduin, but unlike the World Eater, glitteringly white. It's golden eyes, again opposite to Alduin's, exuded warm and trust, and as he turned, its spikes and claws gleamed silver. However, he was clearly wuth, _old_. Although its muscles were still strong, Jon wasn't sure if dragons ever did age properly; several of his silver spikes were chipped, or cracked. His scales had a very faint, greyish tint to them and when he opened his mouth Jon noticed that a few of his teeth were either missing or chipped. His white wings, large enough to cover Jon's house, had a few cuts and tears in them. They looked a little weak. Regardless of this though, it was still awe inspiring.

Jon stood and looked at it, awe struck. In turn the dov, _dragon_, looked back at him, the golden eyes scrutinising him.

'Welcome, Dovahkiin,' it said in booming, clear voice. It was unmistakably male, as he could tell from its voice and dominant stance. In many ways, he resembled Alduin.

'You're a dragon,' was all Jon could say.

The dragon opened its mouth and made a strange clacking sound. Jon guessed that was laughter for a dov. 'Yes, I am.' He agreed. 'My name is Paarthurnax.'

'You are the Greybeards, Master?' Jon asked, uncertain.

'Yes. And I have been for many years, in fact.'

'Then I come before you, mighty Paarthurnax, for a request. Argneir said that you may know the great thu'um. I must learn it, if I am to defeat Alduin.'

'Drem yol nok. I know of your quest, Dovahkiin. Indeed I do. I have waited three Eras for the one who would destroy my zeymah, _brother._'

Jon was shocked. 'You're brother is Alduin?'

'This knowledge displeases you. Onikaan ni ov dovah. Why would it not; after all, he is your greatest enemy. I know of your others though; Tullius, Delphine-'

'Delphine? What do you mean?'

'Perhaps I have said too much.'

'No, no.' Jon was confused. 'What do you mean?'

Paarthurnax ignored him though, absently looking at Jon's face. 'You look like him, you know; your bormah, _father._'

'What... You know my father?'

'Yes, and no. I do know who he is, but not personally. I never had that honour.'

'Who?' Jon asked, his original purpose forgotten.

'He is not great, or mighty. Certainly he was krill,_ brave_, a strong quality, and one often overlooked by the dovah. And while we are talking about family I suppose you want to talk about my brother. That was your original question, after all?'

Jon was dazed, but he put aside his thoughts on family, for now, and focused on his task. 'No, it wasn't, Master. I need to know the great shout.'

'Dragonrend, eh? I understand why. It was the only way the old heroes were able to defeat my brother.'

'He was defeated before,' Jon asked, confused and curious. He had never heard this part before.

'In a sense,' Paarthurnax agreed. 'But not truly. Instead they used a kel, an Elder Scroll, to push him forward in time. To you, who is destined to defeat him. But before I can tell you more, I must know if you are worthy.'

'How can I prove this, Master?'

'Greet me, as the dov do. Breath your yol, _fire,_ at me, and I will do the same.'

Jon wasn't prepared to argue, but he wasn't sure if he would survive a direct hit by the old dragon's breath. He prepared himself and shouted; 'YOL!'

Fire burst from his lips, as Paarthurnax released his, not fire, but frost. They collided with a shattering impact but then dispersed to nothing, swirling away on the wind.

Paarthurnax looked immensely pleased. 'There is only one who can withstand my breath, Dovahkiin. That is Alduin. Yes, you are a dov. You deserve your name.'

Jon wasn't entirely sure what the old dragon meant, but he could tell he had been highly complimented. 'Thank you.'

'You speak our tongue, yes?' Jon nodded. 'Then I shall speak it.' They both made the change effortlessly. _'Much better,'_ Paarthurnax said. _'Now, first about Alduin, before I talk of Dragonrend. You must know your enemy.'_

'_He is technically not as old as myself. He has been trapped in time, for Eras. Only now has he escaped. Myself and Alduin are brothers, whereas the other dragons are spawn of either myself, in my younger days, or Alduin, or indeed some lesser being. However myself and Alduin are the children of Akatosh, the great dragon. Alduin is the firstborn, I being his younger brother. He is not that much older, only a hundred years or so.'_ Jon was baffled by the concept of a hundred years being a small amount of time, but he supposed that time was different to a dragon. _'To my knowledge, we are the only children of Akatosh. Alduin is the greatest of our race-' _

'_Excuse me, master. But why would Akatosh, the King of the Gods, create beings such as yourself to terrorise his world?'_

'_There are always bad apples, Dovahkiin. We were such. As a result, being the first of our kind, the others took after us. It was unfortunate, but we cannot change that now. But that is irrelevant. You must understand this: Alduin is strong; his fire will burn through even your dragon-skin. His scales are hard, and he has not aged as I have, being stuck in time. If we meet again, Dovahkiin, I will do my duty, but I cannot best him. And we will meet soon…' _Jon felt a deep sense of foreboding in Paarthurnax's final sentence, but he put it aside. There is only one way to defeat Alduin…

'Can you teach me the shout?' Jon pressed the ancient dragon.

Paarthurnax looked up, at Jon. 'No, but I can show you.'

**Hope that was a nice long, (and good) chapter. I tried to make Paarthy as badass as possible because he is SO much better than the Blades. Please, review and I'll follow you home!**


	38. Crimson Snow

**I wrote this one fast. Er, it's interesting. In any case a big thanks to HereLies for the amazing review, which, as always was long and cool. Loved reading it. A big thanks to HowYouRemindMe for the review. Thanks for complimenting my Paarthy! Me and RaptorZeroOne both bowed to Paarthurnax in his review and I got a great laugh and interesting comments from Decepticon-Girl079. It was great! **

**I wrote this like lightening because things only get more interesting! Here you go guys!**

**Imperial General Tullius**

**Imperial General Tullius coughed out snow and snot. **The storm still smashed into the Legion, devouring the men and choking the world in a smothering blanket of white. Tullius had an epiphany on the seventh day stuck in the storm; _perhaps this is what death looked like?_

It was certainly lifeless enough. The tents were struggling under the weight of the snow, and some had collapsed. No one moved, duties had been scrapped two days ago, and the men just sat in their tents, trying to stay warm. The bulk of the food had run out a few days ago and the men were on tight rations. Tullius' speech had earned him the personal loyalty of the legionnaires and given them a morale boost, but he knew that it couldn't last that much longer.

They had been stuck in the storm for nearly three weeks, a mere three days from Solitude. Despite Tullius' attempts to move them forward, it had been to no avail; the Legion could hardly move, let along have the energy to toil to make a passage through the snow.

The butcher's bill had been stacking up steadily, with an average of about twenty men dying a day now. As a result, the Legion had lost over four hundred men out of the one thousand five hundred that Tullius had brought on campaign, not including those lost in Falkreath. Everyone was feeling the strain now, and tensions were high. Most of the time, the General stayed in his tent, trying to conserve his energy.

There was movement at the door and Tullius reached for his sword. Recently, discipline in the Legion ahd started disintegrating and there was nothing Tullius could do about it, so instead he played by their rules, and tried to wait out for a rescue. He wasn't even sure that Quintus had made it through; it was more likely that he hadn't, but he had to hope. He could do nothing else.

Legate Cato came through the flap, warily, as if he expected someone else to be inhabiting Tullius' tent. When he saw the General he pushed it aside and stepped in, bringing a generous flurry of snow behind his tall frame.

'Are you alright, sir?'

'Well enough. You?'

Cato's face was gaunt, his hair limp, but he put on a smile. 'Good.'

'Come here then.' Tullius motioned a stool next to him and Cato sat. Tullius looked him over; clearly he was tired. His limbs were thin and they shook slightly, but whether from cold or exhaustion Tullius couldn't tell. Maybe both.

'What's it like out there?'

Cato made a face. 'Not good. The men have started to get in fights over food and other supplies. There was a death earlier.' Cato said this quite calmly, but Tullius could see that he was shaking a little. The boy was obviously more scared than he let on.

'Hey, look at me.' Cato focused his green eyes on Tullius. 'They will pay, and we _will_ make it out of this. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'That's the spirit.' Tullius smiled. 'Now, how about I tell you a story from my time in the Great War. It was 173, maybe 174, I forget. I was a tribune back then, serving in Hammerfell-'

'Sir!' A man burst through the door.

Tullius stood, the story forgotten. 'What is it?'

'There's a fight, sir, out in the tents.'

'Take me there!' Tullius commanded. 'Legate, are you coming?' Cato nodded and rose to follow Tullius.

The group made their way into the sharp cold and devastating snow. Tullius heart was pumping. He had no fear of the legionnaires, but these men were no longer part of the Legion. They were half mad and he couldn't blame them; circumstances had caused the men to do strange things. Tullius no longer knew them, and he wasn't sure what they would do when arrived.

During the storm he had kept to his tent, his officers claiming that it was no longer safe for him outside. At first he had protested, but when one of them had been jumped and killed, he had taken their word for it. It was mess outside and Tullius was reluctant to face it, but this time he had no choice. He had to make a stand eventually.

Fear rose up his throat, making his head fuzzy and unclear. He wrestled it down, lengthening his stride. _The sooner it's over, the better._

The men led him round the corner, to the fight. It was worse than Tullius had imagined; a man lay bleeding on the ground, stabbed through the chest. Another's hand lay next to him, the flesh ripped and spraying dark crimson over the white snow.

Tullius looked up to find the culprit, but was instead met by a close brawl, where knives flashed and one man had a sword. It was chaos. Tullius chest tightened with fear, but he breathed deeply and roared; 'STOP THIS MADNESS!'

The men turned and looked at him, comprehension dawning on their faces. Tullius took the advantage; 'You're on a charge. You, you and you. Go, now.'

The men looked like they were going to move, their expressions uncertain, but then a Nord pushed his way through, a bloody sword in his hand. 'There are no charges. And now,' he raised his sword, 'there are no officers.'

Tullius looked more closely at the men and noticed they all carried an officers badge or belt of some sort. Realisation dawned on the General; _this was no fight. It was murder._

He should have been scared, but his anger rushed up and he stepped towards the Nord. 'No officers, huh? I'm the fucking General, and _you_ will be executed at dawn. _**Move**_,' Tullius voice was steel but the Nord sneered.

'You move. It's your execution after all.'

Tullius drew his sword. 'I'll do it here then. Come on!'

The Nord advanced but Tullius was grabbed from behind. He struggled against his captor, only to see his own guard leering over his shoulder. Cato moved forward, throwing the man aside, but then it all blurred together.

Cato was helping Tullius to his feet when the Nord advanced. He swung his sword and Cato dodged suddenly, thrown off. The Legate pulled at his own weapon, but the man shoved him, knocking Cato's sword to the ground. He slashed at the Legate, who jerked back, but another traitor threw him into the Nord and bright red splurged from his throat as the sword cut across it, showering Tullius. He blinked it out of his eyes as Cato's spasming body fell next to him, blood being choked up from his mouth onto the dark snow.

Tullius reached for his fallen sword, but a metal boot crunched down on his hand and he screamed. The Imperial tried to draw his dagger with his good one, but another legionnaire kicked it away and brought his own down into Tullius' neck, then his chest, punching through his tunic. Red covered his torso and throat; _the colours of an Empire. _Horns blared and another dagger slammed into Tullius. The cold covered him and the General's world turned black.

**Write a review, please.** **I'm sorry for the ending, but ah, it had to happen eventually. You can rage hate in a review! No, you'd rather come round my house and kill me. Yeah, er, at least you don't know where it is. Yet… **


	39. Alduin's Bane

**I loved writing this! A Paarthurnax viewpoint. The next two chapters (I think) are awesome so stay tuned! Also, I listened to 'Take On Me' while writing. It inspired me to write two chapters in a day! **

**Okay, to the thanks. A MASSIVE thanks to HereLies who reviews every time with amazing reviews. I can't say how much I love reading them. To Anonymous-1 (I had two anons) I'll write it as fast as I can. I think I'm doing pretty well at the moment. To DraGGonized, thanks for the story alert and great review. (I agree, I like it when characters are human and can die.) Thanks to Adm. J. Kirk McGill for the alert (always appreciated) and another anon for a review. Sorry, Anon, but I'm not sure Dawnguard would fit in. I might write one later, or have them factor in the next story I'm doing, but as for now- sorry, but no. I appreciate the review though; I listen to ideas! Last but not least thanks to HowYouRemindMe for the review. You're right, all the Nord needed to say to Tullius is 'THIS IS SKYRIM!' (I should have put that in.) I will sometime. Thanks for the great review. Cheers to everyone, I love reading and receiving them! **

**Okay, here it is. It's…**

**Paarthurnax **

**Paarthurnax surveyed the mountain**_**. Monahven is what they call it, Throat of the World.**__ The su, _air_, was light, and it filled Paarthurnax's wings with full hot air as he glided around the mountain. His muscles worked gently and he glided around the summit. _

_They should be here. It is tiid, _time._ 'Su'um ahrk morak.' His eyes scanned the mountain top, picking out blades of grass and clefts in the qethsegol, _stone_._

_He looked around again, into the air this time. Silahmikmid, _Soul, Service, Loyalty_; and Drogsharotkah, _Lord, Mighty, Pride_, circled with him, waiting for the joor_, mortals_. __**We were there to speak with the mortals, nothing else.**_

_Movement at the bottom of the mountain. __**The humans are here**_._ Paarthurnax tilted his wings and dropped, wind rushing upwards as he slammed into the ground, making it shake. The joor moved back, hesitatingly, reaching for their claws. He was not surprised; Onikaan ni ov dovah, _wisdom is not trusting a dovah.

_The great dragon settled down, and made himself look fearsome and powerful. Such is a dovah's kah_, pride_. His companions continued to circle. _

'_So, you have come here to seek my aid,' Paarthurnax begun, his voice rippling across the stone. _

_One of them, an old one with long grey hair, stepped forward under the dovah's intense gaze and knelt. 'We have come for help. We need a way to fight back. Akatosh himself told us of your willingness,' he said._

_Paarthurnax was surprised, but he didn't show it. __**What was bormah Akatosh doing?**__ Paarthurnax thought briefly. Indeed, he was sympathetic to the joorre. They hadn't stood a chance before his brethren, and yet they had showed ahkrin_, courage_, when battling against impossible odds. Paarthurnax realised that he had agreed to this meeting because he did want to help the joor, despite anything else he might make himself believe. _

'_Leave me. I will consider your request.' They didn't argue, and left quickly, though he could tell they were none too happy with the inconclusive meeting. **But I had to think.** _

**_I reflected back on the past years. It was true; in the eyes of men we had committed terrible crimes. My dovah instincts still battled me though, pushing me to grasp for suleyk, _power_, even as I knew that, fundamentally, it was wrong. My brother had taken it upon himself to be crowned Jun, _King_, of the dovah, to my great disgust, rejecting his original duties as the World Eater. _**

_The great dragon thought back on his own crimes and he shuddered. Paarthurnax concealed some of them from the Dovahkiin, such was his shame; but this wasn't the purpose of showing him the memory. _

_He let out a rein, _roar._ Drogsharotkah and Silahmikmid descended, landing heavily. _

'_I have made my decision,' Paarthurnax told them. _

'_You should forget them,' Drogsharotkah said. _

'_No. I cannot. Understand this; we are wrong.'_

_Drogsharotkah reared angrily. 'We are never wrong!' _

'Cease_! I've decided to help them,' he glared at Drogsharotkah, whose pride was rankled. He knew he had to accept though. Paarthurnax was larger, older and more powerful in the thu'um; in every way his superior. The great dragon's scales glittered a pure white as he turned to Silahmikmid. _

'_What do you think?' _

'_I agree, great Paarthurnax. We must help.' _

_Paarthurnax nodded, satisfied. 'I've decided to teach them the thu'um.' _

_The two dovah looked ready to protest but a rahgron_, angry_, look from the great dragon stilled them. 'Find them, and bring them here,' Paarthurnax commanded._

**The memory shifted, **_and __Paarthurnax was __crouched on the ground next to the joor. They were practicing the thu'um. _

'_Yes, good. You have made fine progress.' _

_They all nodded in turn. **Over the months of training they came to regard me with immense respect. For my part, I found them strong and determined. I fear that we underestimated your kind, Dovahkiin. But it would prove our undoing…** _

'_You have the skills to defeat my brethren,' Paarthurnax said, 'but how will you use them?' _

'_Well, I should think,' one of them said. _

'_Indeed. I hope so, or your cause is lost.' Paarthurnax decided it was time to address the matter at hand. 'This war will not end until my zeymah, brother, is defeated. You realise that I hope.' _

_The old Nord stepped forward. 'We have a plan. It is set.' _

_Paarthurnax nodded. 'I would see him from this world, but I cannot help you. He is my brother after all.' _

_One of them looked ready to complain, but again the old one caught her. 'We understand of course. It would not be right.' _

'_Yes, not right.' Paarthurnax agreed. _

_**I was not prepared for what they had in mind, nor was I part of it. I was never told, and I didn't realise that what they had created would wipe out my kind either. It was a strange thing to orchestrate the destruction of your own race. It was something I never recovered from. You understand I hope. I hated my race for their crimes, and my own, but still… It is unimaginable, Dovahkiin. As a result, I will only share this memory **_**once**_**. Prepare yourself. **_

**Fire fell from the sky**_**. **__Dovah twisted in the air and men killed them with their swords when they landed. Teeth flashed and blood turned the ground red. I glided high above monahven, _the mountain_**, **__looking down. I heard the thu'um blaze out, a call for Alduin; _Destroyer, Devour, Master_, my zeymah. _

_He swept down, his black form drinking the night whereas mine blazed away the darkness. _

'_Pahlok joorre! Hin kah fen kos bonaar!' _Arrogant mortals! Your pride will be humbled!

_**Then, they shouted it. I could not understand the words, as we dovah cannot understand the concept of mortality, but you can. I felt the shock wave, heard my brother's cries of pain and fear as he fell, his wings broken. It took all my willpower to stay put, and not rush to his aid. It was my deciding moment, my final test, and I passed. But it was a bitter feeling, and one I was not pleased to have achieved... **_

_Alduin was surrounded by the three joorre, _mortals_, but his rahgron was unquenchable. One fell, smashed aside and broken. I admit, I was pleased to how well my brother fared. Another came and his claw shattered on my zeymah's scales. He was knocked aside and then the wuth, _old one_, pulled out the Ko, the Elder Scroll. _

**The light from it engulfed the memory** and Paarthurnax returned to the present. He shook his great head and looked around. Dovahkiin looked equally confused, but when he looked up at the dovah, a triumphant grin spread across his face.

'Zu'u lost nii!' _I have it!_

Paarthurnax didn't share his joy. A rein, _roar_, broke the air. The storm which Paarthurnax had kept at bay for eras, rushed in, engulfing them. The great dragon pushed through it to find Dovahkiin clinging to the ground, the snow bombarding him.

'What happened?' He shouted, face tight with concentrated effort.

'My brother has arrived.' Paarthurnax roared, the fear building, his destiny approaching; 'Alduin, the World Eater is coming…'

**If you liked that, review, but remember if you didn't like it; review. Also, if you were indifferent, dump in one word! It's easy to review now! I don't care how long it is! REVIEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! (Yes, I just spammed it.) **


	40. A Blade In The Dark

**Here the next one is! I thought I ahd released the last few chapters a bit too quickly, so I waited a little to let this out. Into the thanks! **

**There were loads of reviews this time. It's amazing and I can't really thank you enough. I got a few Anonymous' so I'll have to refer to you as Anon1 and Anion2, etc. To Anon1, thanks for the review. I will keep going! To HereLies, (who I owe a lot to), thanks fro the great review, which as always was amazing to read. Thank you. To x102reddragon, thanks for the story alert and favourite story! To DraGGonized, who reviews everytime as well, thanks you. I love reading ittttttt! To deathshadee37, cheers for the favourite story, and to JakMartheDarkWarrior thanks for the story alert. To HowYouRemindMe (still a cool name!), another regular, thanks for the great review! I love reading them! An Alduin POV would be interesting but I don't think I'll do it. Half of Alduin's personality is his mystery and overriding sense of power and lust. I don't think I could make an objective chapter, but I DO listen to suggestions and I love put them in if they work for me. (Sorry anyway.) Also to RaptorZeroOne, another regular, the next battle in the next chapter was fun to write. It will test Jon, and honestly I'm not sure he's up to it. Thanks for the review! To Anon2, the idea is great. I'll rework it a little, but I love the concept. Thanks for the review! Lastly thanks to Anon3 for the great review!**

**That was long, but seriously I love it. Any writer will know how good it feels. Thank you all. I'm glad you like it. **

**Okay, a dedication. To HereLies who seriously helped me with the last chapter. He's a great editor by the way, he really is. He writes quicker than me! **

**Esbern**

**Esbern walked through the corridors** of Sky Haven Temple. The upper level of the fortress contained the living quarters, all circular rooms with a set of beds, private chests for each one and a large fireplace, including a small table to eat from. There was a larger stone dining table in the main hall, but that was for special occasions, such as the appointment of a Blade, or a visit from the Dragonborn. All together Esbern reckoned that the temple could hold nearly one thousand Blades.  
Also up on the first floor were the private studies of the Master, and Primary Blade. Delphine had taken the Master's study, as was her right. Esbern had taken the Head Archivist's study, located next to the huge Akaviri library on the ground floor. It was a fair size, filled with cubby holes for scrolls and shelves for books, with a large desk. By contrast, the Master's study contained maps of Skyrim that lined the walls and a sword plaque. A large desk dominated the centre, set in front of a large window. It was this study that Esbern entered in response to Delphine's summons.  
'You requested my presence, Master,' Esbern asked her after he had entered.  
Delphine looked up from the parchment she was studying. 'Here, Esbern, look at this,' she said, beckoning Esbern over.

The title granted by Grandmaster Jon Dovahkiin, 'Tuz' was rarely used. It was more of an identification used when being addressed by non-Blades, should they ever reveal themselves in such a public way again. Titles such as 'Carl' and 'Thane', or the Cyrodillic 'Sir' and 'Lord' were still used when one swore into the Blades, and with these a hierarchy other the official one was being created by the new Blade members.  
The Archivist took the letter from her and looked it over: a recruitment sheet. Nearly fifty new Blades had joined the order since Jon's departure; two of which were veterans like Delphine and himself, the rest promising individuals with a shared hatred of the Thalmor. They had already been assigned into groups; Archivists, Swords and Shadows; the scouts and spies. Although they were all taught to master some stealth and combat skills, these 'Houses' split prospective members into groups which appreciated and focused on their talents, effective as soon as they were sworn into their Bladehood. Sadly, finding recruits for the Archivists had been harder to do than the other Houses, as few people could read in Skyrim and Esbern didn't have time to teach anyone. But on a lighter note, Esbern noticed that Delphine had assigned three of the best Swords, with some good Shadow skills, to the 'Dragonguard', presumably Grandmaster Dovahkiin's personal guard. The whole list was made with a variety of Tamrielic races, excluding High Elves, Wood Elves and Khajiit; (because of their affiliation with the Thalmor) and Argonians (as they had never been part of the Blades.) Orsimer were welcome, but rare as they preferred to stick to their mountain holdfasts, only very occasionally venturing from them into the wilds of Skyrim. Nords were the most prominent race in the Blades, Esbern noticed. Overall Esbern was well satisfied with how the recruitment was progressing.  
'This looks promising,' he said, passing it back to Delphine, who took it and filed it back in her desk. 'Is that all, my Lady?'  
Delphine drew herself up at the use of the style. As the Blades were predominately a Cyrodillic organisation, they used the titles and styles of the 3rd Era Empire.  
'No, I summoned you here for another purpose, namely the matter regarding Jon "Dovokiin".' She mispronounced the draconic but Esbern didn't correct her.  
'What is there to discuss?' Esbern asked, warily.  
'The Dragonborn's leadership.'  
Esbern was puzzled. 'Has he done something wrong?'  
'In a sense.'  
'I don't follow.'  
Delphine moved aside her papers and unsheathed her dagger. She began to hone the point. 'Jon is not worthy to be our leader,' she said flatly, as if she had been practising this speech beforehand; 'he has no experience, or any right.'  
'Delphine, you forget-'  
'Master Delphine! She said sharply.  
'Yes, Master Delphine. Remember, you voted him into the position at the time.'  
'It wasn't fair,' she said, sucking at her lip, her eyes fixed.  
'I don't follow.'  
'Of course you don't,' she snapped. 'No, what we need is new leadership.'  
'Jon is the Dragonborn, anointed by the Greybeards and worthy from all I've seen of him,' Esbern said stoutly.  
Delphine didn't hear him though. 'What if I take over?' She looked longingly out of the door, up the stairs to the top floor, dedicated to the Grandmaster's Study.  
Esbern broke the reverie. 'No! Jon is Grandmaster; put this foolishness from your head.'  
Delphine looked startled, but nodded. 'Yes, you're right. It was a stupid idea, forgive me.'  
Esbern nodded his agreement. 'I will never mention this again.'  
Delphine, distracted again, looked up. 'Yes, good of you.' But the hungry look had returned.  
**Esbern exited her office** and made his way to his own study next to the library. Like all the studies, it had a meeting room which doubled as the main study, then a large bedroom and washroom. Only the Heads of each House were entitled to a study, and they were all generally all the same. The Grandmaster's office was the exception; it had a solar and separate dining room in addition to larger versions of the rooms found in each of the various Head's studies. The Grandmaster's study also combined all the various elements of each Head's duties; for example, it included a small library to represent the Archivists. It was there that the Heads took their lunch and dinner as well.  
Esbern made his way to his own bedroom and rummaged around, pulling out paper and ink. He quickly scrawled down a letter and sealed it with the black-blue of the sigil of the Blades. The sigil was sword, in the middle of a field of blue-black. It had a dragon's head rearing above the sword. Esbern tucked the letter inside his long black cloak and reached for his sword.  
In the temple Delphine and Esbern had found a large armoury. There they found Blades heavy armour, light armour and plans for recreating them. They hadn't yet had the good fortune to find a blacksmith who would swear into the Blades, and as a result the Head's that _had_ been instated were being careful in what they gave out top the recruits.  
The swords they had found were different to the modern katana. They consisted of a straight crossguard, both sides in the shape of blades whose pommels met in the middle. The blade itself was dark steel, and the whole sword was made of metal with the handle wrapped in black leather that had fared surprisingly well in storage. Nonetheless Delphine and Esbern were already replacing the old sort with new, supple leather. The blade was straight, unlike the katanas Esbern had used in his youth.

Esbern knew he was too old to properly use a sword, but he was reluctant to leave it behind; he didn't trust Delphine.  
They had had to buy new materials themselves, but Delphine and Esbern's private stashes that they ahd saved over the years had paid for most of the rebuilding of the Blades.  
Esbern took his sword, belted to his waist and made his way out of his study. He needed to find Servius, a good man, and one of the first they had recruited to the new Blades.  
Esbern figured that as the Master-At-Arms in Sky Haven Temple he would be in the training yard, so he headed up to the top of the fortress.  
**The training yard** was a compound situated in the open air at the back of the temple surrounded by walkable walls which offered amazing views across the Reach from the mountain on which the fortress was built.  
Sir Servius, a knight formerly from Cyrodiil, was in the middle of the yard, training recruits. To Esbern's left was a covered section where targets and practice dummies stood. Servius was watching two recruits spar.  
Sir Servius was an Imperial, short to the Nords, and stocky. He was dressed Blades armour, black-blue chain, covered by a black surcoat emblazoned with the Blades sigil. He stood with his arms crossed, shouting out advice to the recruits. Esbern didn't have any time to waste and he made his way over to the Master-At-Arms quickly.

'It's time.'

Servius's eyes snapped up. 'Get out of here you lazy gits!' He roared at his charges before turning back to Esbern. 'Let's get somewhere private.'

They moved over to a corner of the yard and Esbern turned to Servius.

Esbern wasted no time in addressing the matter at hand. 'Here, take this,' he passed the knight the letter. 'You need to go quickly, or I fear we will be too late.'

Servius nodded. 'I understand,' he said. 'You can count on me.'

'I hope so.' Esbern clapped him on the shoulder and walked away briskly before they attracted too much attention. He looked over his shoulder as he walked through the corridors. Shadows leered over his shoulder and he gripped his sword as he hurried to his apartments.

He burst into the room and sat on his bed, exhausted by the stress of his recent actions. _If Delphine found out… _Esbern shuddered and instead went to his desk and started writing absently, trying to keep his mind off his traitorous actions. He lit a candle as night crept in, and poured himself a cup of wine; a nice vintage from early 4 era. He sipped it contently, the drink warming him to his fingers. When he looked back at his ink, he realised he had written about Jon and his impending destiny. He sighed and leant back in his chair.

Esbern knew that he should be excited, or scared, but the Archivist felt strangely calm. He breathed deeply and felt himself slip into a deep sleep. Shadows enfolded him and he closed his eyes to the waiting darkness…

**Hope you liked it. You know the drill. Put down a review. It's easy and fun for the whole family! Heck, I'll even throw in a free chapter for your first seven reviews. Okay, five. Four, no three! That's fair right?**


	41. A Dance of Dragons

**Here it is! I hope you guys have been looking forward to this because it was mostly fun to write and I really hope that it raises Alduin's power in your own books (he was too weak in the game.) **

**The thanks! To DraGGonized, the review was great. I'm glad you appreciate the Blades being larger idea. To JakMartheDarkWarrior, your review was awesome. I loved reading it, who cares about grammar! Review again! Cheers! To RaptorZeroOne thanks for the review. Its nice to be complimented. Another cheers for you! To HereLies, the Blades will feature again! Soon… Thanks for the review! Thanks to blackwind2254, the review was kind of strange, but thanks anyway! Thanks to wyerking for the favourite alert and a big thanks to HowYouRemindMe for the great review. I love how you related my characters to Game of Throne ones. I'm glad if Jon is anything like his namesake (yep, that's where the name came from!), and Ned. I'd be hear more of their 'characters' if you find them! To Anon, I suspect you are Foacir, but I don't know (just the way the review was written). Loved how long it was and it looked at loads of stuff in great coolness and detail. As to the Imperial front, don't worry as of yet. Sorry if I got your identity wrong. If it is you, Foacir, sign in! And last of all to DarkReaver724, thanks for the favourite story! **

**Keep reviewing like that please! It makes it great to read and if I get to a hundred reviews (not entirely unlikely), I'll release TWO chapters in a day! Yeah! Please keep reviewing. I'm lovin' it! (Play McDonalds music.)**

**Jon Dovahkiin **

**The blizzard beat Jon down. **He rose, the snow tearing at his clothes and freezing his hands. He tried to clear the skies but it had no effect. A booming laugh rippled out from the sot, _white_, fog.

'It is time to meet your end, Dovahkiin.' He burst from the fog, his scales sucking out the light from the world. Jon Dovahkiin readied himself for his destiny. He drew his sword, and let words of power dance on his tongue.

Alduin descended and Jon threw out a flurry of rotmulaag, _words_. Frost leapt from his mouth and it engulfed the World Eater, but a blast of fire blew it apart and Alduin slammed into the ground. Jon was staggered, and he threw himself back as the World Eater lunged. His blade slashed, but the steel only scraped off the harder scales of the dragon's head.

Alduin was fearsome: a massive ved, _black_, jagged form with piercing red eyes that burned visions of destruction and failure into a warrior's soul. Jon swung his sword, determined not to fall pray to them, but Alduin turned his head, taking the blow, before slamming one of his arms into Jon's stomach.

The Dragonborn flew back and slammed into a large outcrop at the side of the strunmah, _mountain_. Fire burned up his chest; his ribs were broken, but he still had his sword. Alduin advanced before noticing Paarthurnax at the side of the mountain, half hidden in the raging storm, watching the battle.

'Paarthurnax, my brother! It is a fortunate time that we meet. Mu mulaag uznahgaar! Will you help me kill this upstart, for old time's sake?'

Paarthurnax lowered his head, and moved away from his dark brother. Jon watched in disbelief as the white dragon backed down, even as he struggled to his feet. Alduin studied his zeymah, and started barking his thu'um at him, goading Paarthurnax to fight.

'Leave him,' Jon croaked. 'It's me you want.'

Alduin turned his gaze, his eyes dancing with a mad glee. 'Yes, Paarthurnax was always sahlo, _weak_. He is nothing, though you are not much better.' He launched a thu'um at Jon who barked out a few words in response. The magic collided, but the World Eater's broke the Dragonborn's, who stared in disbelief as a wall of fire raced towards him.

It smashed into him, burning his clothes, and Jon screamed as the World Eater's breath penetrated his skin. A haze of red entered his vision and the Dragonborn looked up as Alduin slammed his tail into Jon's head.

Red hot pain slashed across his face and Jon felt his skin tear and open. Silver specked blood ran hot and his jaw wouldn't work properly. He couldn't shout, but he needed to. Jon let out an uncontrolled thu'um but Alduin batted it away and used a vice-like arm to smash Jon into the ground.

His body protested as he took another blow.

His chest caved in and he spat out sos, _blood_, drowning in it, choking on it. His strength was deserting him, but he used the last of it to swing his sword at Alduin's head.

The blade shattered, numbing his arm, but a fragment entered the World Eater's eye and he roared in pain, blood splattering Jon's body. The Dragonborn barely registered his broken blade… Only the pain…

'Dovahkiin, hin kah fen kos bonaar.' _Dragonborn, your pride will be humbled! _Alduin roared and swung his head at Jon's hand, which still held the broken blade. His arm snapped with the impact and Jon screamed, but his cries drowned out by the storm.

Alduin rose over him, blood running down from his mangled eye. He rose, intending to end Jon once and for all, but then a white form smashed into him.

**Paarthurnax burst out of the fog**, _slamming his weight into Alduin. The elder dragon skidded back, his claws creating deep furrows in the stone. _

_He stared at his brother, trying to comprehend what had happened. _

'_Paarthurnax? Brother, he will eradicate us! Stand with me, and finish him!' _

_Paarthurnax circled his brother. 'Never again,' he said quietly. _

_Alduin's face contorted with rage. 'Then die with him!' He leapt at his zeymah, and Paarthurnax dodged, using his claws to thrown Alduin over. He lunged at the World Eater's throat, intending to end the fight quickly, but the elder brother met it with his own klov, _head_, batting aside Paarthurnax's, before lunging in turn. _

_The white dragon leapt back, off of Alduin, and the black one pressed his attack. His teeth bit into Paarthurnax's wing, and the younger brother roared with pain; he hadn't felt such a bite in years. The dragon slammed his other wing into Alduin's head, and his brother's wounded eye. _

_The World Eater fell, rolling in the od, _snow_, as Paarthurnax leapt at the chance, knowing that he had to be quick, or fail. He dove down on him, Alduin dodged it and swung his tail, knocking his brother over. _Jon watched as his strength faded, and his vision blurred. He coughed up his own sos, _blood_, and watched as Alduin fell on the white dragon and started beating him. Dovah blood hit the snow, and scales shattered on the hard mountain stone. Jon watched, powerless, as Paarthurnax threw Alduin off and glanced at Jon, who was drowning in his own blood, choking, dreaming of Ysold.

_Paarthurnax's jaw set and he pushed off Alduin, letting out a thu'um that ripped through the od, snow, and slammed into the World Eater. The ved, black, dovah fell, his leg broken and some of his scales smashed. Fire burnt in his eyes and he released a blistering torrent of it at his zeymah. Paarthurnax's frost met it, but he knew his strength was waning. The thu'um had taken too much and sure enough his own fo, frost, steadily gave way to Alduin's yol, fire. _

_The white dragon broke, and Alduin pounced, smashing his leg into Paarthurnax's heart. His brother screamed, the pain rocketing through his broken body. _One… more… chance!_ His tail whipped up and slammed into Alduin's side. The point sank deep and Alduin wrenched it away, his roar dripping with pain._

'_Do, not… think, you have won,' he breathed heavily. He turned, his sos smoking, and his brother watched as the World Eater leapt away in the storm.___It is over. I did what I had to, to ensure that Taazokaan survived_**.**_

_Paarthurnax crawled over to Dovahkiin, who was coughing up his blood. His face was ripped, his chest managed. His breathing was becoming increasingly shallow. _

'**Leave me,'** Jon choked.

'I did what I had to. I am sorry for my hesitance, but now I pay for it.'

Jon turned his head, pain rushing up through it, obliterating all else. 'No. He is… your brother,' he coughed painfully. Blood contaminated the snow.

'Take this. As a gift. My last.' Paarthurnax fell heavily, and his body started to burn. The flames were gold, licked with white, and they submerged Jon. Strength rushed through his limbs even as his own deserted him. His vision was lit, but the shadows burned into his sides and Jon fell back in his own blood, utterly exhausted.

**Please review. I hope that it was good, because that was a crucial chapter in my story. **


	42. Clan Stormcloak

**Very simply, I wrote this chapter so that I could explore Clan Stormcloak further and built it up as a proper Game of Thrones style Great House. I hope you like how I've 'made' the Stormcloaks of Windhelm. Also, it isn't an error I did change the colour scheme. I'm sorry, but I never really liked the blue and yellow, so I just changed it to black and silver. The emblem and design stays the same though, never fear. **

**Onto the thanks. First off (I do it in order of receiving them by the way, not favouritism, y'know just saying) to HowYouRemindMe for the great review. I'm glad you like the characters! To JakMartheDarkWarrior who made some awesome comments about Jon's future armour and weapons in his review. Loved reading about them! To RaptorZeroOne who's jaw has nearly fallen off, I'm gonna make it fall ALL the way off soon (I hope), but now _just_ yet. To Anon, thanks for the review. I'll write it as quickly as I can. To HereLies, I loved your review (including the unofficial second one). They were great to read and I LOVE how you analyse pretty much the whole chapter. To Foacir, good to see you again (and not because I'm just a selfish review-obsessed author. I loved reading it. It brought up lots of cool stuff like the Blades impending betrayal and how Jon was majorly owned. Thanks! To DraGGonized, I'm glad I did something you didn't expect. Cheers for the review! To hetekos thanks for the story alert and favourite story! Okay, I love writing so much (for obvious reasons). Thanks all. **

**Slightly random, but it does have several purposes that will later become clear. **

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

**Ralof of Riverwood made his way up to the Palace of Kings. **Jarl Ulfric had requested his presence and the Captain wasn't one to deny such an opportunity. Ralof passed the guards with no problems; he was well known by now.

The throne room was large and Ralof made his way down its length, the rebel's footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. He moved pass the massive feast table and up to the Throne of Ysgramor where Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sat, watching him carefully.

Ralof knelt before the throne, his head bowed. 'My Jarl, you requested my presence?'

Ulfric looked down at him. 'Indeed I did,' he boomed. 'Rise, Captain, and follow me.' Ralof rose and followed Ulfric out of the throne room, down a small passage, and into a long hall where a line of statues were placed in alcoves along the wall. On the opposite side was a long rack of scrolls, which gradually turned into books as they reached the far side. Everything was furnished in the colours of Clan Stormcloak; black and silver.

Ulfric paced slowly forward, absently, and Ralof turned his attention to the statues. Each showed a man clad in armour with a weapon at their side. Each statue was clearly a Nord of immense size standing in an austere position that showed them for what they were. A hand rested on a shield by their right side, emblazoned with the emblem of Windhelm; a bear head above a two straight strips positioned so that met in the middle line of the shield in a point, while the other hand rested on their respective weapon. The stonework was impressive and it became steadily more Nordic as each statue advanced. Ralof thought they were fairly impressive, but he still wondered why the Jarl had brought him here.

They reached the end of the line and Ralof recognised the last statue; it was Ulfric Stormcloak. He realised with a start that the statues must all by the rulers of Windhelm, the heads of Clan Stormcloak. He looked at Ulfric who was watching him carefully.

'They're your-'

'Ancestors, yes; yes they are.' Ulfric pointed at the one next to him. 'That was my father, who ruled before me.' He pointed further along; 'that one is my great grandfather. So you see,' he turned to Ralof. 'These statues depict the entire Stormcloak line. I am the… very last.' He hesitated with the last two words, and Ralof understood his worry for a brief moment, but then it broke when Ulfric looked at the rebel, his face hard, warning against any kind of pity. The Captain didn't know what to say.

The Jarl waved a hand. 'Never mind. It is not your problem.'

'My Jarl, your problems are my concerns.'

Ulfric favoured him with a smile. 'No, it isn't. You know the history of Clan Stormcloak?'

Ralof shook his head.

Ulfric nodded. 'I didn't think so. The Stormcloaks are descended from Ysgramor's second son, Ylgar. By this reckoning it makes us the oldest bloodline still alive in the whole of Skyrim, let alone the oldest Clan. My blood is that of the Nede, the humans from which the Nords are descended. We have ruled since the first era. Many thousands of years…' Ulfric trailed off as he mulled over what he had just said.

'The banner of Clan Stormcloak; the bear in silver with the black background, that is the same emblem used for Ylgar's ship, the Darumzu, which is the name he gave the bear on our banner. The Stormcloaks have always had a strong affinity with the bears of Eastmarch. You may have noticed that we share some of their characteristics.'

Ralof looked at Ulfric; it was true. He did have some very bear-like features. His body and brow, even his yellowy blond hair streaked lightly with grey, all reminded him of a bear.

'These traits have been passed down generations. For _Eras_ there has been a Stormcloak inside Windhelm. We have proved good rulers I should think, over our course of time. But now, comes the ultimate test. We are faced with an Empire that is false and corrupt. No one dares stand against it, but me. What does that tell you about a Stormcloak?' He looked at Ralof, his face a mask.

Ralof swallowed. One word and he could be executed, just as quickly as an embrace. 'It shows courage, doesn't it, Jarl?'

'No. It shows someone who cares for Skyrim, and someone who is prepared to fight for her. Ralof, do you know why I've told you this?'

'No, my Jarl.'

'I've told you this because I think that you are ready, and so that you know who you fight for. You are ready to lead, Ralof. I am launching a naval attack against the Empire. You are to inspect the ships and the Seastride Clan who keeps them. Ensure they are ready for battle, and report back to me. Galmar will give you what you need.' Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak turned away and pondered the statue of his father without another word.

Ralof left quickly, and when he was sure that Ulfric was out of sight, he stopped and leaned against a wall. He breathed deeply, shaken by the encounter. _What was that for? Ulfric's reasons were thin to say the least. _Yet again, Ralof's mind turned to Falkreath and the healer. _What happened to Ulfric there? Why has he become so… dark?_ The Captain could only ponder these questions, as he went to find Galmar on this new Jarl's orders.

**! If you review I'll be your best friend. Heck, Ulfric will be your best friend. You know he loves theses stories.**


	43. A Painful Truth

**Okay, not sure about this but here we go. It's going to painful for Jon to come to terms with the aftermath of the 'battle' (if you can call it that). **

**To the thanks! I know that for me it has been a while since I posted another chapter, but thank you for supporting it. To JakMartheDarkWarrior thank you for the review. I'm glad you noticed the whole bear-like family trait! (And Ulfric's voice is cool.) To RaptorZeroOne thanks for the review. Yet gain, I'm glad you like that the Stormcloaks are the direct descendents of Ysgramor, whereas other families are off branches of the line. To HereLies, another long review. I really appreciate the praise Ulfric is receiving as a character (I like him as well), and you're right. His linage is immensely important. To DoctorDovah who posted an author alert (I hope it works this time) and a great review, cheers! Sorry for Paarthy's death, but it has important repercussions for Jon emotionally and… well, I'll leave that for later. To Sirwalterbeck, thanks for the favourite story alert and to shamesh for author alert, favourite story, story alert and REVIEW! Glad you like the characters! Thanks! To Deception-Girl079 thanks for the author alert and great review! I'm glad you like the colour change (I didn't like the blue and yellow) and I am sorry you still feel for Paarthy. Don't worry, so does Jon and every decent character in this story. Heck, so do I (and I'm the one who executed him!) To Mandalore the Annihilator, thanks for the favourite story, author alert and story alert. Last of all to DraGGonized for the review. I'm glad you like the Ulfric POV (I was actually debating whether to include it. I'm glad I did.) Thanks you all (man this sounds like a stock phrase now.) **

**Okay, this took ages to do, but I hope you like it… **

**Jon Dovahkiin**

Jon Dovahkiin woke with a start, his su'um, _breath_, rushing up his battered chest. Air streamed through the windows of High Hrothgar. Everything hurt and when he shifted pain spiked up his body. Jon groaned before the memories of... when? Yesterday, a week ago? he couldn't remember. With a start, the fight rushed back to Jon and he realised that he could hurt more.  
_Paarthurnax is dead_. _I failed. The old dragon sacrificed his soul to keep me alive; all because I wasn't strong enough to fight him myself._ It left a bitter taste in Jon's mouth.  
He rolled over painfully and tried to forget everything, just for a second. It was all too much, it weighed him down heavily. Jon felt like he could hardly breathe, let alone move. And now everyone would expect him to continue; it was his supposed destiny to chase the World Eater relentlessly even though he had no idea how he was even supposed to complete the deed should they meet again.  
Jon tried to relax, but his limbs burned and itched. He felt helpless, and instead turned his mind to Ysold and Alsfur. He missed them. Jon hoped they were well, and that tugged at him too. They needed him, but so too did Skyrim. But Jon knew what he wanted; he wanted to go home, though fate had intervened in such a way as to prevent him from doing so.  
He cursed fate and then cursed Alduin for good measure. He wished the force of his bitter rahgot, _anger_, would sweep both of them away but when he opened his eyes again he knew that he was in exactly the same predicament as before.  
Footsteps broke his thought pattern and he shifted his head to see a Greybeard walking swiftly to him, several healing tools in his hands. It was Argneir.  
'Ah, you are awake. That is good.' He moved to Jon's side and started working on the Dragonborn's injuries, reapplying the bandages and a strange green poultice.  
'What happened?' Jon croaked, his throat dry and raw.  
'We found you under... under Paarthurnax's body.' The Greybeard's mouth tightened. Jon realised with a pang of guilt that it was a harder loss for them, than himself.  
'I didn't kill him,' Jon said, uncertain as to what the old monks suspected had happened up on that mountain. 'It was Alduin, but I am sorry for what happened.'  
'No apology is needed, Dovahkiin.'  
'No, no;' Jon shook his head with effort. 'Zu'u los munax. I owe you a debt. You helped me learn my destiny, taught me and in return I accused you of trying to kill me. It wasn't fair. You were right,' Jon swallowed painfully; 'I wasn't ready.'  
Argneir's face softened. 'You did all you could. It is a powerful position that has been forced on you, and an important destiny. You have every right to lash out. Better those that understand the power that you have, like us.'  
Jon looked at him, his eyes intense. 'Thank you.'  
'Think nothing of it.'  
'So, what happened to me?' Jon asked cautiously, dreading the response.  
'We found you surrounded in your own frozen sos, _blood_, up on the mountain. We heard the battle, and Paarthurnax's last words. It is all we need to endure past this, without him.' Argneir turned his attention to Jon's body. 'Alduin tried to kill you. He would have if not for your own personal strength and his brother's sacrifice.' The Greybeard rested a hand on Jon's shoulder. 'Your ribs were broken, one crushed. Your right arm was also badly damaged, your face laid open to the bone, that will scar badly I fear, you have multiple burns and your jaw was also dislocated. We would have left you for dead, if not for your destiny. Instead we used our tmagic to help you, but even so you would be gone if not for Paarthurnax's strength, which helped sustain you while we worked on the healing of your body. You still have several broken ribs but your arm is mostly healed as is your jaw. The claw blow, though, is still in stitches and I fear it shall take some time to heal properly. '  
'My throat hurts,' Jon breathed.  
'Yes, well it was quite the battle of tongues you had. It was damaged in fight I suspect; you will have to rest it for a while.'  
Jon probed his mouth with his tongue. Blisters covered the inside and they burned when he touched them. He winced and sat up with difficulty, his whole body tensing with the effort. Sweat poured down his face, but Jon managed to prop himself up so he could look at the Greybeard properly. He took a deep breath and prepared to confront his biggest fear. He needed to tell someone, and Argneir was the best person to share it with. Him… or Paarthurnax. _I barely knew him, yet he gave everything he had to pass on a free Tamriel to my ancestors. I owe it to him at least to come to terms with bitter truths, like he did. _

'Do you think I can kill Alduin?' Jon asked suddenly.

The Greybeard hesitated and thought carefully. Jon's mind silently confirmed his own faas, _fear_. 'Yes, you can. You have to,' Arngeir finally said.

'"I have to". What does that mean?'

'It means that one day you will face him again, as is your destiny. That day, you shall know.'

Jon sank back, weariness filling his body. It was all so hopeless and bloody. _I can't take this anymore, I can't. I need an end. _Jon's thoughts turned again to his loved ones; Ysold, Alsfur and to those he liked, his friends like Ralof… and Ulfric. He had failed to destroy Alduin, He hadn't saved them the Gol Naak, _World Eater_. But there was a way he could protect them all; a way to save them just as he couldn't save Paarthurnax. He had the power for this at least. Jon looked at the Greybeard, his eyes set.

'Call a peace treaty.'

Argneir was deep in thought. 'What was that?'

'Call a peace treaty to end the war.'

'What do you mean?'

Jon was becoming more passionate as he went. 'Skyrim listens to you still. You and I shall hold a peace treaty to end the war. Think on it; lives would be saved, Skyrim made whole. You preach peace, why not actually create it?' His pitch was desperate but now Jon knew that, in this at least, he had to succeed, else more would die. He couldn't handle that anymore.

Argneir was thoughtful. 'It has never been heard of…'

'Why must it heard? Why can't it be _done_?' Jon insisted.

'It is against our laws…'

'As Talos was never meant to rule an Empire and Jurgen Windcaller was never meant to lay down his sword. Argneir, as Paarthurnax was never supposed to help humans. Call the treaty, please.'

Argneir hesitated, torn.

'Argneir, you have a chance to make change, not just watch. Take it, I beg you.'

The Greybeard looked up slowly. 'Yes, Dovahkiin,' he nodded. 'It shall be done.'

**I hope that was good. I'm not to sure about it but I needed to put it in there. Review please and check out my new poll to decide your favourite 'Seasons' character. Please review and check it out! Peace treaty soon! (It will hopefully be an interesting chapter.) **


	44. A Talk of Fleets

**First of all, I had a lot of help from HereLies with this chapter. So thank you for the great editing job. **

**The thanks: To JakMartheDarkWarrior thanks for the follower thing and great review. Hopefully your questions will be answered next chapter. To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the poem/review. It's nice. To HowYouRemindMe thanks for the review! The treaty is coming up next and Ulfric/Tullius interactions will hopefully arouse a few curious readers. To Foacir, get an account first off. Secondly thanks for the review. Sadly this chapter isn't the peace treaty but I'm glad you liked the last one. Thanks to HereLies for the favourite massively long and as always in depth review. Things will be interesting next chapter. To madrac, cheers for the story favourite and to blackwind2254, thanks for the following and review. I loved reading it! **

**Thanks for the editing HereLies. The next chapter is the peace treaty…**

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

**Ralof of Riverwood made his way down to the Windhelm docks. **Jarl Ulfric had entrusted him with making sure that the Jarl of Eastmarch's fleet was ready to sail. As of yet, Ralof had no idea of the finer details of naval combat but that didn't really bother him. Instead he focused on the fact that he had been granted an honourable and powerful position by the Jarl himself, and while he wasn't entirely sure about his leader's recent change in temperament, Ralof had sworn Jarl Ulfric an oath and he meant to hold to it.

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak had been called away a few days ago. He went to attend a peace treaty with Tullius and the Dragonborn, at the command of the Greybeards themselves! Ralof suspected that Ulfric was more interested in meeting Jon again than actually agreeing to any treaty though. He still found it hard to believe that Jon of Solitude, a simple farmer, was this legendary hero of lore. He felt a pang of jealously; after all, Jon had fallen into this amazing position purely because of his birth, but didn't all Jarls and Thanes ascend in the same way? Ralof still held a strong respect for them, so why not Jon? _But putting aside my personal feelings, Jon is strong and dependable, if a little sober._ _At least Jon will take it seriously. _In truth, Ralof couldn't think of anyone better to battle the World Eater.

But where the peace treaty was concerned, Ralof still wasn't sure what he thought. Sure, it would be a good thing to see the war that was tearing apart Ralof's home end, but he didn't want to have fought for nothing all this time. That was what scared Ralof most of all: that all the sacrifices he had made would ultimately amount to nothing. It was more than he could take, thinking about this possibility, so he didn't. He turned his mind to his task and duties.

**The docks were large, **lining perhaps a fourth of the high granite walls of Windhelm. Ships sat in the docks, which were crammed with crates and men pulling nets or fixing hulls. It was bustling with activity and Ralof recoiled a little as the strong sea air hit him. He was tolerant of the coast at best; the rebel couldn't see how other Nords even got near the sea, let alone live on it! He had decided long ago that they were the strange ones, and with that knowledge Ralof had been able to live comfortably on land. Built into the walls were offices where the largest traders conducted business and oversaw their own fleets. Guards patrolled the icy docks as a light snow fell onto the wood. _Shor's Blood!_ _It's always snowing now. _He trudged down the dock, already in a depressed mood before he even met the men he was supposed to be commanding.

The ships themselves were strong, with hard, dry decks made of a wood that resisted the Windhelm ice. They had to be, because the northern shoreline of Skyrim was always pretty much frozen and the journey could be difficult.

Ralof looked around. He estimated that about half of the ships at the docks were the Jarl's fleet, the others belonging to traders. Only Solitude's docks bested Windhelm's, and even then only by a small margin. In any case the Stormcloak's were one of the few Clans who controlled a fleet, and it was what made then one of the most powerful of the Holds, despite lacking the large swaths of fertile land that Whiterun controlled for example.

Ralof looked the ships over as he made his way down the dock to the biggest office on the docks. 'The Eastmarch Fleet': Ralof assumed that this building housed the Jarl's fleet operations. He recalled some of his knowledge of the fleet; he knew a Thane was the Admiral, his land being tied to the sea, and this intimidated him a bit; Ralof had never met a Thane, except Jon, but it wasn't the same concept. The new 'Dragonborn' had been a farmer when they first met. This Nord had been a basically been a Thane from birth. He swallowed his nervousness and entered the offices, to be met by a woody smell that replaced the stink of salt and fish that covered the docks.

The offices were large, with a main desk made of polished wood and several different doors that lined a long corridor. Ralof assumed that they led into studies. A Nord sat behind the desk, working on several sheaf's of parchment. He looked up as Ralof approached.

'What is it?' He asked. Ralof eyed the Housecarl that stood against the wall a few metres away before turning back to the Nord at the desk. Ralof produced his warrant and the Nord examined it before jerking his head in the direction of the study at the very end of the corridor.

'Right.' Ralof made his way down the corridor, glancing at each identical door as he walked past. The door at the end was banded with strips of bronze, in a Nordic pattern. Ralof pushed down his nervousness and entered quickly. Another Nord sat at a desk, a long fur cloak hanging from a peg near him. He looked up at Ralof's approach, his brown eyes studying the other rebel.

'Who are you?' His voice was deep, and rough. He didn't seem to register Ralof's uniform; typical Carl.

'My name is Captain Ralof, of Riverwood. I've been sent here by the Jarl,' he told the Carl, trying to instil some authority in his voice.

'Jarl Ulfric?' Ralof nodded, annoyed at the Nord's lack of respect. The Carl rose and held out his hand, which Ralof took. 'My name is Carl Therine Seastride, the Heir to Water's Edge. My father is Thane Yngven Seastride, the Thane Admiral of the East Fleet. Sit, if you will.'

Ralof nodded. 'Yes, Carl Therine.' When addressing a Carl, it was polite, though not necessary, to use their title if you ranked higher than them. As a Captain, Ralof was technically superior to the Carl but he wanted to start off on a good foot, so he used his initiative and addressed Therine with the title. He was glad the other Nord wasn't the Thane himself.

Therine looked pleased by the respect and he settled in his seat. 'So, what are you here for, Captain?'

'Jarl Ulfric had requested that I look over his fleet and check their sea worthiness.'

Therine looked a little disgruntled. 'They are always sea worthy.'

'I still want to see them,' Ralof said flatly, still annoyed about the initial lack of respect. _I wonder if I could throw him in jail now, with my new rank? _Ralof decided he would try it on someone he really hated, like that idiot in the Stone Quarter.

'As you wish, Captain,' Therine said with a little resentment; Ralof could tell he was none too pleased for the Jarl's 'interference'. He stood and pulled on his cloak before leading the way from the study.

They exited the offices and Ralof was hit by the sea air again, which stifled his senses and made him cough, but he just put up with it and waved aside Theirne's concerns.

**The Carl made his way** over to the most impressive of the ships, the Jarl's flagship, called simply, 'The Storm'. It was twice as big as the next largest ship, and deadly, with scorpions lining the deck and inset barrels for oil, when the time came, to set their bolts alight. A special detachment of Stormcloak men were always ready to man them, having been subjected to aquatic training in advance. Ralof sympathised with them. However, most of the crews and fighting Nords were made of Seastride men. The Seastride Clan had been entrusted with the safekeeping, and fielding in times of war, of the Jarl's fleet by the rulers of Windhelm, as it was impractical for them to manage both a Hold and a navy. Instead they used their ships to buy the loyalty of a Clan. As a result most of the men were personally loyal to the Seastride's and Ralof couldn't help but feel uneasy about this, regardless of any oaths they had sworn, but he put up with it and didn't question the Jarl's judgement. Still, he hoped that they were loyal otherwise the price of their failure to the cause would be expensive.

'Do you want to see The Storm?' The Carl asked him. Ralof jerked back to reality.

'What? Oh, right. Yes.'

'Fine,' Therine mounted the plank to the ship with the weary air of escorting a moron. Ralof sighed, and trudged after him.

The Strom's deck was massive. At one end was a door, presumably to the Captain's cabin. It was richly decorated, but Ralof didn't see the sense in that; it was fighting ship, not a merchants holiday boat. The deck was wide and long, in a flat Viking style. The scorpions lined the edges and a heavy catapult was set in the middle on a complex rotator. Therine greeted the men and joked in a strange sailor language that Ralof couldn't understand. The Captain had a feeling most of the jokes were directed at him.

Carl Seastride led him below deck to show off two rows of oars on each side of the hull. Massive oars reached into the water and bedrolls were spread around on the floor of the hold.

Ralof raised an eyebrow. 'Nice accommodation.'

'They're sailors, it's a part of the life.' He moved back up to the deck without bothering to show Ralof the Captain's cabin.

They moved on from 'The Storm', and Ralof looked over some of the other ships. He couldn't write and therefore record anything, so instead he carefully inspected each one carefully, asking about areas he felt were lax or possibly problematic. Therine sullenly promised him that all the ships would be ready for a full scale invasion should it come to that. It soon became clear to the Captain why the Seastride's had been entrusted with the fleets maintenance; Therine talked excitedly about each one once he got over his initial unfriendliness, greeted the men on board like a familiar friend and his knowledge of the conditions they might face were well thought out and insightful, at least to Ralof's ears. He finally conceded that they couldn't be in more capable hands, even if he wasn't sure that the Carl even liked him.

However, in the end Ralof left with a heavy heart. The ships had looked impressive enough, and despite his careful questioning the Captain had already seen from his first glance that they were good to go. There would be no problems with the ships, but somehow Ralof couldn't be sure that he could say the same about the sea; or the Imperials, when they finally reached their destination. He let out a sigh, and resigned his fate into the Jarl's hands. He hoped they were still capable.

**Hope you liked it! Please review and check out my new poll- Who is your favourite Season Unending character?**


	45. Broken Voices

**ANNOUCEMENT! The name of Season Unending is going to be edited slightly to 'The Seasons Trilogy: Season Unending' and it will leave no or very little cliff-hangers, but it is directly related to later stories I have planned. This will soon. **

**I decided to do it from Tullius' view because it was more interesting to see things from his view given his recent experiences, and err, Ulfric's somewhat… you know what, just read it. Please review!**

**To the thanks: Thanks you to HereLies for the great review! This is the chapter you've been waiting for. Also, glad you liked the naval chapter HL. Thanks again for editing it. To JakMartheDarkWarrior cheers for the splendid review! Lots of stuff in there; I loved reading it. Still had to take a deep breath before (you nearly got me this time.) To RaptorZeroOne; yep there is a poll. I wonder who you voted? I'm surprised (but pleased) that so many people like Jon, as he is my main character! Thanks to you guys! Here it is… **

**Imperial General Tullius**

**Imperial General Tullius hobbled out of the snow** and into the cool interior of High Hrothgar. Behind him followed Jarl Elisif, of Solitude, Legate Rikke and Jarl Igmund, of Markarth. He had only taken an escort of four guards to the monastery itself, leaving the rest at the bottom of the steps. Following him, to Tullius' clear disapproval, was Lady Elenwen, the Chief of the Thalmor in Skyrim. She hadn't been his choice, but she had insisted on coming and unfortunately he hadn't been able to stop her. And so here she was.  
Tullius still felt his wounds from the mutiny, now a little more than a month ago, restricting his movement and leaving him in discomfort. He had no doubt that he would be dead if not for the timely intervention of the Solitude Guard. But Quintus had made it through, and Tullius had escaped with his life.  
He had been treated immediately, and brought to Solitude to recover. Luckily the stabs had been clumsy, and ironically, the frost had saved him. His blood had partly frozen, preventing the General from bleeding out, giving the healers more time to work on the wounds to his chest and neck. Tullius could do all that he could before, almost, but hard riding to the treaty on the insistence of his Nord Legates had made them painful again, and so he moved with a heavy step. His mind though, was clear and he was as ready as he could be to face Ulfric Stormcloak again.

The Legion though, had been nearly wiped out. What the snow hadn't got, the Solitude Guard had finished. Tullius was hardly able to complain either, as it was these very actions that had ensured his survival. The General was devastated at the Legion's loss and the acceptance that his mission was probably doomed, which made up one of the reasons he bothered to attend the peace treaty. But Tullius was far more devastated by Cato's own demise. He had had such promise and ability, but in the end the best Tullius could do for him was to give the young Legate a hero's funeral. _But that was the past now_, Tullius thought. _It was the present which mattered. _  
Another reason for his attendance was to avoid having to face the wrath of his Nord soldiers who had responded to their 'Greybeards' calls for peace far more eagerly than he could have imagined. After the mutiny in the snow, he couldn't stand against the hoards and so he had unwilling agreed to attend. It didn't mean that he liked it though…

**On entering the General and his** **retinue** were greeted by old men in robes, presumably the Greybeards. As instructed he accepted the greeting with as much enthusiasm and deference as he could muster before moving past them, down a corridor and into the conference chamber.

A large table with a warm fireplace in the middle dominated the centre. Strange runes covered the walls which, like the whole place, glowed with a strange power. It made Tullius uneasy and he tried to ignore it. _Nord magic, _he cursed agitatedly.

The General hobbled into the room itself, his eyes locked on his seat. It was placed in the middle of the left side of the table, in front of a banner of the Empire. Opposite his own seat was another one, identical, save the banner of the Stormcloaks that hung behind it.

_And so, they are nothing alike, _Tullius thought as he stared at it.

He glanced around, registering loud conversation for the first time, to see Ulfric Stormcloak standing by the entrance talking with his own retinue, a party of four people, including the Skyrim Lord himself.

He too looked round, and upon seeing the Imperial, stepped towards him. His party hung back, and Tullius' own moved away as well.

'General Tullius. I was not expecting you to come.' His eyes burned with such hatred Tullius recoiled and he noted with apprehension the Nord's fingers danced on the pommel of his sword.

He breathed deeply, purging his sudden fear. 'And why is that, Ulfric?' The words gave strength to his resolve.

Stormcloak's face was tight when responded. 'Cowards don't attend with honest men. Or indeed any kind of men. Your deeds have ranked you below such.'

Tullius thought this strange, before his eyes were again draw to Ulfric's moving fingers. They tapped a sword pommel… and with a start the General recognised it. He winced as a flashback exploded in his mind; a dead Nord woman, and a screaming man. He met Ulfric's eyes again but he soon dropped them. Stormcloak's own vision was consumed by a burning hell, struggling to contain itself.

Tullius mustered all the dignity he could, and backed off slightly. Ulfric's hand gripped the sword again as he watched the retreat. But the Lord seemed to get no pleasure from it, no satisfaction. He just watched.

The General hobbled back to his seat, and leant on it, feeling immensely weary. _It was a waste of time to even attend. _And everytime he looked at Ulfric, fear rose up his throat, consuming his mind. Tullius couldn't explain these sudden feelings, yet here they were and he had to get over them if he wanted to broker a successful treaty.

Stormcloak took his own seat opposite and looked him over, speaking for the first time without open malice. 'You look weary, General.'

'When death takes one of us, then I'll rest.'

Ulfric smiled a dark smile, his first, this one sinister but darkly genuine. 'Never were truer words spoken.'

At that moment the Greybeards entered, and they turned to see the old men and two figures in black armour, with swords at their sides. Tullius wasn't interested in them, but at their head was the man that they had all been waiting for; The Dragonborn.

_He's a Nord, _Tullius observed. _Built like Ulfric, but slightly taller. _The General looked him over. The Dragonborn wore no sword, but his eyes glowed with power. They ran over Tullius and he felt like he was being picked apart and reassembled. His face was fearsome, long and slightly rough, and he looked to be in his mid to late twenties, but Tullius couldn't tell exactly. Marring his features were two fearsome scars running down from upper cheek on the Nord's own right side, and Tullius' left, and down, one of them running onto chin and the other scar breaking off a little before his mouth. Tullius was shocked before he regained his composure. They were obviously fairly recent; red marks around them indicated a bloody healing process and he limped slightly, as if his body was buckling under some invisible strain. _No ordinary man could have survived those marks, _Tullius thought in disbelief. _But obviously this Dragonborn is no ordinary man. _

Ulfric made his way over to the Nord and they talked quietly. Stormcloak made to embrace him, but the Dragonborn held him off and they started discussing his injuries in low voices which Tullius couldn't make out clearly. Around the other Nord, Ulfric's dark look almost vanished and their treated each other like siblings, or more appropriately, Father and Son. Tullius despaired of this familiarity; it was unlikely that this treaty would end up to be any fairer than Ulfric's own execution.

But then the Dragonborn surprised the General. He limped up to Tullius and leant in quietly to ask; 'You are injured, General; if I may ask?'

'A simple matter,' he replied dismissively. 'It is done now.'

The Nord nodded. 'Hopefully. We are here to end the bloodshed of war after all,' he said knowingly and again Tullius reflected that perhaps there was something… different about this man. He continued past the General and up to his own seat at the head of the table.

One of the old-men-'Greybeards' raised his hands, calling them to attention. 'This is the Dragonborn's meeting. High Hrothgar is a place of peace and I will have no fighting from anyone.' He eyed the people around the chairs carefully, before the Dragonborn spoke in his booming voice.

'We have come here to look for a way to restore peace in Skyrim. By no means do I want this to become another attempt to achieve your own aims. In this room we are looking for a compromise. Please sit.' They all sat, getting themselves comfortable, some reaching for the ale in front of them before the Dragonborn continued.

'First, I assume the Empire is patient.' He looked at Tullius who nodded reluctantly; _it would be no good to look petty._

'Good,' his face gave nothing away. 'In that case the Jarl of Windhelm will have the first say in the peace treaty we are to draw up.'

Ulfric Stormcloak rose and rested his hand on the table. 'I have a demand first of all,' he rumbled. 'I want to see the Thalmor delegate gone from this room. She has no place here, as this meeting concerns only Skyrim.'

Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador, rose as well. 'Skyrim is part of the Empire. I am here to ensure that no treaty breaches the terms previously agreed between the Empire and Dominion.'

'You have no part here, and I won't tolerate your presence!' Ulfric barked out. Tullius couldn't say that he disagreed with Stormcloak's protests. The Lord looked to the Dragonborn for confirmation of his views and Tullius thought; _and so it begins_. For his part, the scarred Nord regarded them all carefully.

He nodded. 'I agree. Excuse me, General, but she has no part here.'

Tullius nodded stiffly. 'As you will.' Privately he was satisfied; he hated having the Thalmor breathe down his neck.

Elenwen looked to him in protest. 'Aren't you going to say anything? The Thalmor must be in this meeting, Tullius!'

He was saved from answering by the Dragonborn, who still sat quietly, watching them all carefully, but his voice was edged with steel. 'I say not, Thalmor representative. Leave now.' She looked ready to say something, but the glowing looks from the Stormcloaks, and the deliberate ignorance of the Imperials ended the matter. She left without another word. _The Thalmor have dignity, even if they are devoid of any other human emotion, _Tullius thought to himself.

'Now, Jarl Ulfric, your terms?' Dovahkiin resumed the meeting as if nothing had happened. Ulfric looked satisfied and ready to participate.

'We want free worship of Talos-,' Tullius groaned. _Not that again. _'Is something the matter, coward?' Ulfric asked icily.

The unjust title made Tullius brave, and sardonic. 'Huh? Oh, no problem Stormcloak. Please continue.'

'You mock me?' Ulfric asked, his expression blacker than before, his face was shaking with fury.

'Enough,' the Dragonborn said quietly. 'We are here to come to an agreement, not trade taunts. I bid you remember that.' He nodded at Ulfric, who continued, the expression still as dark as midnight.

'Free Talos worship,' he said stubbornly; 'and free governance of Skyrim. We will do you a favour though, and agree to become your steadfast allies in the coming years.'

_Better than I had hoped for, _Tullius reflected grimly. 'May I speak now?' The Dragonborn nodded. 'I reject your most... _gracious_ terms, Stormcloak. The Empire wants you to return to our rule, however we will allow you to act as an independent kingdom in the form of no tax, free of our decrees or governance, save in the aspect of Talos worship.'

'That is the same as before,' Ulfric seethed from his seat.

Tullius leaned back. 'Almost, Stormcloak.'

'What are you saying?' He asked, coolly.

Tullius leaned forward. 'That you will never leave Imperial rule.'

'That is no deal, coward. Speak like a man, or whatever the Imperials produce nowadays.'

'Fine, read my lips, Ulfric.' He stood, as did Stormcloak. 'You will only leave our rule when my sword is thrust through that pathetic organ you call a heart and you leave for Savengor, or wherever the hell you are given to on death.'

'Never mock Sovngarde!' Ulfric roared. He drew his sword and made for the General.

The Dragonborn, who had before been watching the confrontation with a curious expression rose, his face black like Ulfric's. 'That is enough! Drop your weapon, Jarl Stormcloak and you, General, leash your tongue! You will come to an agreement.' He sat again and rested back on his chair, his eyes glowing with fury. Tullius sat, intimidated, and then looked to Ulfric who still stood, eyeing the Dragonborn with disbelief.

'But Skyrim? Doesn't it mean anything to you?' He was looking at the Dragonborn imploringly, naked steel still in his hand, and Tullius held his breath, dreading the response. He needn't have.

'Yes, it does; but so too does it matter for others as well. I can't be selfish, as you are. Not in my position.'

Ulfric's face dropped to a look of betrayal. He was wounded, and Tullius felt a pang of sympathy. Stormcloak drooped, before raising himself, his expression harder than ever before. _Something has changed in him_, Tullius realised.

'Selfish?' He growled. 'Selfish, you say. Why do I fight, harder than anyone else, longer than anyone else? Why? The easy answer is that I am a Stormcloak, but you would never understand that, Jon Solitude. The harder answer is this; I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces! I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to RULE THEMSELVES!I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing, _and_ I fight to destroy a corrupt Empire. I fight… because I must.'

They were silent, and Ulfric breathed heavily before turning to Tullius. 'And I would gladly retire from the world, were such a day to dawn.' With that he swept from the room, and his retinue followed quickly. Tullius heard the sound of snow, and then a door slam closed. He sighed.

The Dragonborn looked shocked, and moved. He sat still, staring at the table. 'Leave General. Today, the day is devoid of songs, or success.'

Tullius he looked down on the figure of a broken man, needing to assure him of something. 'I will give you two months peace, but then we call the banners. I am sorry; peace is a vision many aspire to, but few obtain.' He nodded at the Dragonborn and left, his cloak sweeping away the remains of peace, as the fire grew cold.

**If you liked that, REVIEW! Yeah, if you didn't, do it anyway. I have no problem with negative reviews (though you won't ever post another admittedly) so type a word, a phrase. If you do this, Ulfric AND Paarthy will come round your house and perform a tap dance. I know right! Please review! **


	46. Blood On The Steps

**This is one of those chapters I've been planning since the beginning, when I decided to write this. I really do hope it's good; for some they might love it just because Delphine proves to be the bitch she was always meant to be. By the way, for those who are wondering, Delphine had become my own creation in this part (just so you know. Some argue that she would never... you'll see, if you read that it.)**

**Onto the thanks: To HereLies, thanks you for the review. I'm glad you posted another great, analysing chapter. You picked up on stuff like the 'til death do us part' Ulfric/Tullius line perfectly and I'm glad you noticed the goddamn sword that makes up Ulfric's life now. Life by the sword, you die by the sword. Never was a truer phrase spoken. To shamesh, a review poster, I'm glad you're getting excited! Hopefully this will give you a heart attack (not literally, I have nothing against you…) I hope you're going to find it exciting! To JakMartheDarkWarrior, who posted a review, I'm pleased to see that you think Jon ahs become more serious. He always was a bit sombre but now he's like that guy at the party who stands in the corridor and freaks everyone out. To Moojuice Nne of the Mayonnaise (interesting name), I'm happy to see you like it. Hopefully it will keep surprising you and prove to be worth your reading time. I'm glad you like the grumpy sod who is Jon! Thanks for the review! To RaptorZeroOne, who also liked Jon, I'm glad he's starting to grab your attention. Soon, he should really get you invested! (Unless he lets me down, in which case it's time for another beating, Jon!) To The Waylander (nice name), thank you for the story follower thing! And to There She Goes, etc, etc, thanks for the review! If there are any Percy Jackson fans here read 'The Perseus Attraction' by the same guy. It is very funny! Thanks all! **

**Jon Dovahkiin**

**Jon limped down the front stairs **of High Hrothgar, his leg throbbing with each step. His cloak swirled around him, but in reality although the day was cold, the su, _air_, was sharp and clear.  
Delphine stepped up next to him as Jon reached the bottom of the steps. He had seen her during the treaty but until now they hadn't spoke a word to each other. Jon began.

'How are the Blades?'

'They are well… Grandmaster,' she hesitated with the last word, but Jon ignored it. 'We have received many new recruits.'

Jon turned to face her. 'Tol los pruzah. I should like to meet them soon.'

Delphine looked uncomfortable, or was it alarm? Jon couldn't be sure. 'As you wish, Grandmaster,' she replied.

Jon turned back again and looked down the steps dejectedly. _I'm going to have to climb down those. _  
'I heard of your battle with Alduin,' Delphine said, breaking his silence.

'What?' Jon asked, surprised by her knowledge.

'I know about your battle with Alduin.'  
'If you could call it a grah, _battle_.' Jon reflected bitterly.  
'Jon,' all formality gone; 'the World Eater is a foe unlike any other. You did what you could.' When Jon continued his silence, she pressed on. 'However, there is a matter which _must_ be addressed now.'  
Still silent, Delphine continued. 'You see, we have discovered the identity of the Master Greybeard. His name is Paarthurnax, a dragon.'  
Jon felt a twinge of guilt tug at his heart and he finally turned to face Delphine, his miin, _eyes,_ intense and crackling, looked into hers.  
'What is it to me?' Jon asked, grief sharpening his words.  
'Jon, he is Alduin's brother! He helped enslave humans, _us_. He must atone, he must die.'  
'Ahrk meyz wah dii. You want me to kill him?' Jon asked tightly, full well knowing he was dead. But something about Delphine's insistence troubled him.  
'Yes,' she confirmed stubbornly. Jon's attitude was failing to dissuade her.  
'Paarthurnax gave Nord's the power of the thu'um. The voice, Delphine; he helped fight Alduin and he doesn't deserve to die.'  
'He must atone, Dragonborn. It must be done.'  
'I'm curious, Delphine,' he said quietly. 'Tell me, when did the Blades command the Dragonborn?'  
'Jon-' Delphine began, but he cut her off.  
'Grandmaster; address me as such.' He knew he was being cold, perhaps unfair, but he felt his throat constrict. Something was wrong.  
'My Lord, the dragon must die!'  
'I say not. The Dovahkiin commands the Blades. You owe your allegiance to the sossedov, the dragon blood; to me.'  
'Times are changing, _Jon_. You just haven't noticed it.' Delphine stepped back up behind him. Jon turned his head, to keep her in his vision, but at the same time he noticed her retinue of six other Blades surround the steps. He risked a glance at them and the ven, _wind,_ rustled one of their black Blades cloaks, opening to reveal a strange scaled plate, presumably an old Blade design. A strange sword hung at Delphine's own side and her blond hair was pulled back.

'The Dragonborn are a dying breed,' she continued. 'You are the last, said to be the final. When the Dragonborn dies, who do we follow? I will not let the Blades be put through another crisis.'  
Jon was shocked. _What was happening?_ Delphine moved back with a look of smug satisfaction on her face, but she still kept a distance between them.  
Jon was perversely pleased to see a measure of her fear, but in all honestly he was worried; the men were all armed and armoured, whereas Jon had no armour, or even a weapon.  
He was Dovahkiin though, they wouldn't harm him, but as he scanned their faces he saw only strangers. He began to feel unsure.  
'You didn't think that we would bow to you, a Nord with a drop of dragon blood, did you? No, I control the Blades now, seeing as, in your wisdom you pronounced me Master, my Lord. And in your absence, to the agreement of the rest of the Blades, I was voted Grandmaster.' The words dripped with scorn.  
Jon's throat was seriously beginning to tighten, but he still had something to say.

'Where's Esbern?' _The old Archivist had always been loyal._

She raised her eyebrows. 'Him? He was somewhat… too willing to be led by a hapless nobody. He had to leave, didn't he, Servius?'

A squat Imperial stepped forward. 'Indeed he did, Grandmaster.'

Delphine looked round triumphantly. 'So, you see; the Blades are mine now.'  
Jon's rahgot, _anger_, boiled over. He felt like Ulfric, unjustly accused and with a pang he realised that he had committed the exact same injustice to his fellow Nord. Jon's heart clenched, but he didn't need that now. He needed anger. The Dragonborn looked at Delphine, his eyes exploding.

'So, you would krii, _kill,_ me, and send the world to hell! Would you? Stand down Delphine!'  
'I'm a Blade, Jon. You are nothing; a Nord with a lesser talent at wordplay.'  
'And you are no longer a Blade, Delphine. MOVE ASIDE!' Jon was pleased to see a look of hurt flash across her face and he laughed at her, a harsh sound, entirely out of place in this setting. She was hurt, and Jon exploited that mercilessly. 'What, never been given any criticism as the perfect, adaptable Blade? Delphine, you are a bitch and a turncloak and the worst Blade I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.' He grinned bloodily; 'and before the end, I'm going to kill you.'

She regained her composure and drew her zahkrii, _sword_, to fuel her courage. 'It's over. Kneel and swear me allegiance or we'll kill you.'  
_Why?_ _There's no logic, no justification to it._ Jon didn't say anything though, instead he stepped back into the circle. His throat was tight and his wounds ached. He couldn't take them all. But High Hrothgar was just above him; if he could reach it...  
'No, Delphine.'  
'You can't take us, your voice is hoarse, your ribs broken and your leg... KNEEL, TO, ME!'  
Jon returned her stare with cold fury. 'Krosis,' he cursed in draconic before turning to face his enemies. The Blades raised their swords and advanced. The thu'um was building, engulfing, but he couldn't let it out. His throat hadn't healed yet, not properly.  
A Blade advanced and swung at Jon. Time slowed and he looked at the sword in a daze. His vision was blackening, but everything had suddenly been rendered in perfect clarity. _My final gift, Dovahkiin. Use it well. _Paarthurnax's voice reverberated through his mind.

The sword descended and Jon dodged, kicking the man's foot so he fell, and then smashing his hand into the centre of the Blade's armour. It crumpled and the man flew down the steps. Blood streamed down Jon's ripped fist, but he used it to his advantage. He swung it round and hot dov blood hit the men, scorching their eyes. They screamed as he pushed past Delphine and mounted the steps, his injuries almost forgotten. But not quite; his wounds were taking their toll and he was slowing.  
The Blades were catching up, overcoming their initial shock. He heard cries behind him, but he didn't look back. Some of Jon's wounds opened after the recent exertions and red sos, _blood_, was beginning to soak his shirt, _my blood_, and his ribs protested loudly.  
The door was only another short flight away, but it was too much. Delphine pulled his leg, the injured one, and he stumbled onto his knees, faaz, _pain_, lancing up them. The former Blade lashed out with a kick to Jon's head, connecting brutally.  
The stitches on his face opened and he tasted blood. Pain, as red hot as steel, arched through his face and Jon's vision grew darker. The thu'um was all engulfing, he couldn't hold it. Soon, he probably wouldn't need to. Again his thoughts rushed back to Ysold, alone, and Jon raised himself to his knees, running his hand across his face, which came away with a generous amount of his own silver flecked blood. _I have to survive for her. _  
'There, pure enough?' He demanded holding his hand out at Delphine.  
'This isn't about blood, Jon, only power,' she said, circling him confidently. 'Blood is just an unfortunate side affect of taking it. But now that I have you on your knees, I ask your allegiance again. Give it and we can return home, to Sky Haven Temple. You will make a fine advisor to the Blades.'  
'Delphine, you don't understand-'

'NO! You don't understand. All these years I waited, I did. I dreamed of leading the Blades to glory, but then you came, with no right and took it from me! I suffered, and so will you.'

'Nothing you can do will make me suffer like you have,' Jon told her wearily. 'Life has failed you, but not me.'

'No?' She smiled, a cruel smile. 'If you die, you instructed me to find your family, take your son and raise him.'

Horror gripped Jon. 'No…'

She leant down, pulling up his hair. 'Oh, Jon; you _are_ naive and foolish. Your family will pay for your crimes, mark my words.' He looked into her eyes, and saw the dance of madness.

'Take me, not Ysold. Or Alsfur…'

'No, I'll let the men take… Ysold, is it? As for Alsfur, well, he might make a fine little Dragon, if he's raised correctly, and produces some heirs.'

Anger boiled over him. 'You… I.. You will die Delphine! I will kill you MYSELF! I SWEAR IT!'

'I find that hard to believe. Goodbye, Jon of the Dragonborn.' She raised her sword… as a knife slammed into arm. She screamed and men came roaring down the steps. Steel met, and sos, _blood_, spilled, soaking the steps, but Jon had only eyes for Delphine. She started to crawl away, but he leapt on her, all hurts forgotten in his anger, save one…

He grabbed her throat and squeezed, roaring in his blind fury. She reached for her sword, but he swung her round, cracking her head. Blood rained down the steps, mingling with his own. She tried to fight but Paarthurnax's mulaag, _strength_, flowed through his veins, burning them, enhancing his own body past its own limits. Without a sound he lifted her up. 'It's over Delphine. I've won, you knew I would.'

She struggled harder, the su, _air_, seeping from her lungs. But it was over. His lips moved and horror crossed her face as the thu'um blasted her over the steps, and off the Throat of the World, down to the valley floor more than 1,000 miles below.

He sagged back, slipping on the bloody steps. His throat was burning furiously, but for the first time since Paarthurnax's death he knew what to do; he was going home. Delphine could have been bluffing, but he couldn't be sure. Ysold and Alsfur needed him, just as Jon needed them. They had steadily been seeping from his mind, but no more. It was time he chose the life _he_ wanted.

Jon turned back up the steps, registering the Imperial men all around him. Some looked on in shock, others grim, but at the top of the steps, by the door into the monastery, was General Tullius, leaning against the doorway. On noticing Jon's stare he nodded, before going back inside.

**Die Delphine, you bitch! Hope you hate her as much as myself. Please review, but if you don't I won't ever get to 100 REVIEWS! Come on, just a little review! We can do it guys. We can hit the landmark!**


	47. The Arrogance Of Youth

**Sorry for the wait. I've just go to answer some questions from reviewers who don't have proper accounts, so I can't private message them. Please ignore this if you aren't: **

**To Dude Guy: For your first review (by the way, thanks for reviewing!), you said that the Mede's aren't Saturday Villains, and they're not. It's Ulfric's view, and in a later chapter (To End A War) Ulfric says, and I quote: '**The Emperor had been brave and strong, a true leader. His head was shiny, but he was in his forties, powerful and tall, for an Imperial. There, in keeping with an Empire that honoured the traditions of their provinces… at the hand of the Emperor himself!' **That isn't bad, that's good. But also, it is Ulfric's POV, and so Tullius and Mede are often distorted. As for the dragon siring thing, I thought it would be cooler to change them to actual brothers (though it never says they aren't). It is Fanfiction, after all. I also changed the Ulfric's capture thing as well. If I did make a mistake though and lead you on then I'd be happy to correct it. (I may have done it without noticing). As for Jon, yes I have been Mary Sue-ing him. I'm going to correct that because I didn't realise I was. I have stuff planned… As for Ulfric and Tullius, this chapter is going to get rid of the 'Ulfric is a saint' thing, and as for Tullius: he has been good. He had canny political skill, he faced a mob in the snow, he recaptured Falkreath, in this chapter he gets even more of a boost from Ulfric's view. In the treaty chapter he was scared of Ulfric because, although brave, Stormcloak's fury was indescribable. He killed (unwillingly), his love and he is freaking out! You could not be scared. Even Mary Sue Jon was 'shocked' when he lashed out after Jon's unfair accusations. Even so, I have some cool stuff for Tullius planned later, so stick with it. (Also, I'm guessing you're an Imperial man, Cool Dude. Don't worry, your favourite character will get himself a cool chapter soon, hopefully.) I hope that cleared things up. (You should know, that I'm a neutral supporter- I don't the Stormcloaks, just most of my character seem to been from their ranks, which was accidental.)**

**To Delphine hater: In regard to Alea, thanks for the review. As for your request, I'm not sure. I'll put her in Sovngarde (for a purpose) and have Jon meet her so that I can fulfil a bit of your request, but as for the return; I really sorry, but in G.R.R.M style, I don't think I can do it. I'm so sorry, but it would look tacky. I didn't realise how popular she would be or I would have developed her more. Alas, she is in this chapter at least. Keep reading, and I am sorry, but she will return in more than memory later. **

**Okay, everyone. Sorry this took so long. THANK YOU for SO many reviews! You pushed me so far past 100 (and I also found out people _really_ hate Delphine). To be fair, my power was off so I couldn't write it and if this is rushed, please bear with it as I tried to get it out quickly. The next few chapters will be out at rapid speed (just wait for that Tullius one, Cool Dude) for posting so many great reviews!**

**The thanks: I'm sorry their bland this time, but (thank you again) there are loads! Okay, in monotone voice, thanks to shamesh for the review, JakMartheDarkWarrior for loads of reviews, HereLies for the review, Luffl for the favourite story, RaptorZeroOne for the review, Foacir for the review, Drovahnak for the story alert and review, BrunetteAuthorette99 for the review and story alert and author alert, DoctorDovah for the review, Tyr'amun for the favourite story alert, R. I. P for the review, gj for the review, lukon87 for the story alert and favourite story, Delphine hater for the review, CrazyGuy for the review, General77 for two reviews, and of course Cool Dude for the three reviews! If you had accounts I would have PM thanked you, but you probably want to read the story, rather than read loads of thanks. But seriously, I appreciate all the support. I will bring out the next chapters at light speed as thanks, never fear. **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

**The Stormcloak men piled onto the ships** slowly. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his horse watching them and he was struck by how this reminded him of a similar memory where he sat on a horse watching similar men march on the path to Falkreath. _And what a disaster that was. _Ulfric hoped that this wasn't an omen for the eventual outcome of this new campaign. But this was pushed aside as the thought of Falkreath brought with it the inevitable tide of memories; memories of Alea.

Looking at the ships he was unwillingly draw back into the past. In it he stood in the Imperial docks, in the Imperial City some 30 years ago. _The sea wind whipped past my face. I had been assigned to guard the Imperial fleet, for reasons that still escaped me, and naturally I been bored waiting for something to happen. I was also a little disgruntled, after all I was the son of a Skyrim Jarl; I should have been commanding these ships, not watching over them like a common surf. But then Alea had appeared. _

_She had come out of nowhere, as she was wont to do, and I had immediately thought that my luck had taken a turn for the better. I remember the smell of hair, like roses, brushing apart the salty breeze as she sat next to me. _

'_What are you doing here?' I asked, naturally curious. _

'_I have nothing to do, so I decided to find you.' _

_I smiled with all the arrogance of youth; 'of course you came to find me. I'm the only one here worthy of your attention.' _

_Alea gave me an odd look and continued sarcastically. 'Thank you, my Jarl. I am most honoured to be allowed in your presence.' Then she stood and started to walk away, leaving me thinking that perhaps I shouldn't have said what I did. _

'_Alea,' I called. 'Fine. I am merely someone that you would like to sit with.' I'm sure that my mood coloured my words but Alea said nothing about it and sat herself down next to me, gingerly swinging her legs over the pier. _

_I noticed this movement. 'Are you scared of the water?' _

_She looked down at it before replying quietly. 'No, it's just… unknown.' _

'_Can you swim?' _

_Her head gave the tiniest movement of a shake. _

'_Ah, so that is why you are afraid.' _

_She turned to me, her eyes a blaze. The blue had always looked fire when she was angry. 'I never said I was afraid!' _

'_Oh,' I said stupidly, taken aback. 'No, you are uneasy.' _

'_You're calling me craven?' _

'_No, no, of course not! I thought you'd like my help-'_

'_Yes, of course!' She cried, sarcasm lacing her words. 'I would be honoured if the great Ulfric Stormcloak, he whose family stretches back eras and are all masters of the ancient art of swimming, would help me, as I am too craven to be near the water and so therefore am obviously incapable of learning myself, or even enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting by a friend as the sun sets!' _

'_You think of me as a friend?' I asked. Looking back on it, I probably could have said something better. _

_She whirled around and left me alone to ponder my mistakes. _

_The thing about Alea was that she was proud, and had the anger of a Stormcloak. Her emotions moved in waves, and I simply tried to follow as quickly as I could. Not always successful. _

'**My Jarl, are you ready to inspect the ships?' **

Ulfric was pulled from his memories into the face of Captain Ralof.

'Oh, yes of course. Lead the way.'

Ralof nodded. 'As you will.' He turned his own horse and Ulfric followed down the docks. Their mounts steps creaked on the wet wood and he suddenly felt a little uneasy. If these planks broke, it would be a short drop to the water below. Perhaps he wasn't as confident as the impression he given Alea all those years ago. Or maybe it was just age; it had been _years_ ago…

'My Jarl?' Ralof was asking a question.

'Speak,' Ulfric commanded.

'The Seastride's, er, I have a thought, Jarl Ulfric.'

The Jarl's curiosity was aroused and any thought of Alea disappeared. 'What is it?'

'I think that they might not be the best people to lead your naval attack.'

'And why is that, Captain?'

Ralof looked a little unsure, but Ulfric was giving nothing away. 'I think that they might not a loyal as you think.'

'They have been loyal Bannermen for many centuries to Clan Stormcloak,' Ulfric told him, his voice hard. 'I expect no surprises.'

'Aye, my Jarl. But still…'

'What proof do you have?'

'Nothing,' Ralof admitted; 'by I can't shake the feeling-'

'So, you propose I, what; arrest them on your "feelings". Is that it?' Ulfric's mood was not a pleasant one, and he was still annoyed about being roused from his memories of Alea for what appeared to be an extremely stupid reason.

'My Jarl, I think that you should watch them-'

'No, I don't think so. I hadn't expected it from you, but I sense other motives behind this.'

Ralof looked offended. 'What would I gain from this?'

'I think that you should be quiet, Captain, or you may find that the Stormcloak army shares some similarities to the Imperial one.'

'Yes, my Jarl,' he mumbled.

'Go find something else to do. I'll deal with this myself.' Ralof left quickly, but Ulfric ignored him completely and spurred his horse forward, making his way up to The Storm, his flagship.

Ulfric Stormcloak had little use of a navy normally, but now it seemed that they would prove a good investment. He looked up at The Storm, feeling an immense sense of satisfaction. _How can the Imperial dogs compete with this? _

He dismounted and climbed the plank onto its deck, slowly, so that he didn't fall in. Alea, as he had taken to calling the sword that had taken… the sword that had seen her to Sovngarde, banged against his shin, reminding him of his duty and in the process bruising his leg, mak9ng his mood ever fouler.

Ulfric pulled himself onto the deck and looked around. Men rushed across the wood, pulling weapons, bolts for the scorpions, and other such tools to the hold for storage. The Jarl scanned the deck for Thane Yngven Seastride, finding him next to a younger Nord that could only be his son. They were both of average height, the senior was a stout figure, the younger slimmer and more graceful. They both had deep brown eyes, with light blond hair. Yngven's was greyer, but he hadn't changed in all. Both Seastride's were wearing boiled leather armour, wrapped in the brown sash of their Clan. On Ulfric's approach they turned and dropped to their knees.

'Rise, my friends.' He embraced them, but it was a forced gesture and he looked at them suspiciously. _If Ralof was right… _Ulfric told himself that he was just being paranoid, and instead focused on what he could see. They looked happy to see him, and he let them lead around the ships.

The younger Seastride, a Carl if Ulfric remembered rightly, kept quiet and respectful, while his father, Thane Seastride, talked loudly and boasted of the ships capability. The Jarl found that Alea preyed on his mind ever more heavily, and he dismissed the Thane's words as she might have done, instead asking the question that he wanted to know.

'When will they be ready?'

The Thane scratched his beard. 'I should think that two weeks would be realistic, my Jarl.'

'I think not. How about a week?'

'I'm not sure-'

'Then be sure. I want to set sail as quickly as possible. If we go quickly, we could get in before Tullius can rally the guards.'

'What do we have to fear from an Imperial?' He let out a barking laugh, but this Ulfric _really _couldn't tolerate.

'Fool! Tullius is the greatest threat we face, and only morons such as yourself would underestimate him. If he has time to raise the guard, likely as not, we won't be able to get in.'

'My Jarl is the far better tactician-'

'Tullius is one of the greatest military minds we've ever faced. I should have killed him at the peace treaty.'

Yngven was shocked. 'You attended a peace treaty with those dogs!'

'Yes, but only so I could see the boy who called himself a dragon.' The Thane had a questioning look on his face and Ulfric indulged him this time. 'He is still a boy, and a naive one. It also appears that he has no love for the Stormcloak cause.'

'My Jarl, have you ever considered that he may join the Imperials? He could be our most dangerous foe,' Yngven warned.

Then Ulfric laughed, a harsh sound, unlike his real one. 'Ha! I taught that boy, and I promise you he is a boy. He knows nothing of this world.'

'This is precisely why he might join the Empire.'

Ulfric considered this, and his mood only became blacker. 'He will choose rightly when the time comes.'

'As you say, my Jarl.'

'I do,' Ulfric told him harshly. 'He almost young enough to be my son; if the time comes, I will be ready deal with him, never fear, Thane. I will be ready.'

**Thanks for all the reviews! I will make the thanks more personal next time, and all I can say is I love the support. I'm glad I stuck with this story, and I will try and honour all your requests. I can't do them all, but I CAN make Jon less Mary-Sue-ish, and I will! Anyway, thanks guys, it means a lot. **


	48. Rorikstead

**Okay, this story is advancing. Soon… **

**To the thanks! To HereLies, thanks for the review! I love the great comments and support. I'm glad you like Alea- its too bad she died. To JakMartheDarkWarrior, I will try and write more! It's hard because I've never been that kind of guy. Thanks for the review! RaptorZeroOne, cheers for the review! I love your ideas, and I was already thinking about something like that before. To Delphine hater, thanks for the reviews! When I said bringing back Alea was tacky I didn't mean it that strongly. I'll consider it, but I promise nothing. To Foacir, I'm hope I am getting into a stride. In three chapters it's going to go off and then the end is in sight! To Aero l'aquila thanks for the compliments on the characters! The Blades have a part to play yet, and thanks for the reviews! To That Crazy Halo Girl, thanks for the favourite stories alert! To Lucie Anonymous, welcome! Your review was great. I loved the structure, it made me laugh for some reason! + cheers for the story alert. Well, there you go. **

**Another chapter!**

**Jon Dovahkiin **

**Jon Dovahkiin surveyed Rorikstead from the back of his horse. **It was a medium-sized town with an inn and a trader, but it lacked some of the facilities of a larger town such as Riverwood. But at the moment none of this concerned Jon. He spurred his horse along the road, which made its way down the steep hills surrounding the town.

A late shul, _sun_, beat down on Jon's back; however with his mail on it made him sweat. Delphine might have sent men to take his family though, so Jon kept it on even though he had no zun, _weapon_, by his side save a dagger, seeing as when his sword broke he hadn't bothered to acquire a new one. But he had the thu'um, his voice. He needed nothing else.

As Jon's horse reached the outskirts of Rorikstead he noticed that the town had no wall, or any kind of defence from attack. _If they had a-_ _No, that's a part of my old life. Now, I'm just a farmer._ It didn't concern Jon anymore so he pushed it from his mind and continued down the road quickly, trying to spot someone he could talk to. A guard was walking up to him, obviously trying to determine who he was, and so Jon brought his key, _horse_, to a halt in front of the other Nord.

'What are you doing?' The guard asked. He was dressed in the red-brown of Clan Stead, who ruled Rorikstead.

'The farm, two miles west of here, is it still standing?' Jon asked quickly.

'Aye, it is. Why wouldn't it be?'

'You're certain?'

'Yes, I am.'

Relief rushed over Jon and he slumped in his saddle. His horse was panting from its own exertions over the past days and Jon knew that he couldn't reach the farm before nightfall. He needed to rest.

'I live here, down at the farm,' Jon told the guard to remove any suspicion.

The guard looked unsure. 'Go on ahead then, but I'll be watching you.'

Jon was faintly annoyed by the distrust but he put his heels his horse anyway and headed into the town.

As with most rural Skyrim towns the path through it was wide, and hofkah, _houses_, were often spread out in a line on either side of the road leading to the centre, each with their own piece of land to cultivate. In the middle of the tightest block of houses was the Thane's longhouse, if the town had one. IT was always exceptionally simple yet even then far more luxuriate than the common serf's house. Traditionally the centre was also where the trader and inn were situated. Rorikstead was no exception.

As Jon entered he noticed a sudden bustle. It was an assault on his senses and he nearly retched when he smelt the pook, _stink_, of the pigs by the inn. He coughed and looked around for someone to clear it up before remembering his status. _But I am a Thane, and the Dragonborn. Surely that should grant me some kind of power?_

Jon let that thought stand, as it was true, before remembering that he had left that life behind. Nonetheless, he knew that it was going to resurface eventually, but until that day he was just a farmer. _With a horse…_

Jon Dovahkiin dismounted and made his way up to the inn, intending to buy a drink to cool himself down. He could change from his mail when he reached home. _Ysold might even find it dashing. _He satisfied himself with that thought as he entered the inn.

It was stuffy, and full of people. Pah unslaad. _Always the same. _Jon supposed that it must be time for a break from the fields and so the workers were enjoying a drink before they returned to work. _If any of them are drunk they're get a thrashing from the Thane, _Jon thought grimly. And then he remembered why he had never taken part in these activities; he was considered too much of a 'spoilsport'. _Another reason why a separate farm is a good investment. You make your own times and your own life; with as little dependency on the Thane as possible_. _Equally though, that was why these were rarely granted by a Thane._ Jon remembered how much money it had taken to get the deed. _Luckily, I had made my riches in the Dragon Blades. _Even so, the money was gone now and he and his family had worked in subsistence farming these past six years. _And I've been gone for more than a year of them. _

Jon made his way up to the bar where the bartender was serving another Nord. He tried to get through, but then fell back and waited impatiently for the other Nord to finish. _Maybe I should display my badge of office? That would move the people along. _Again, Jon rejected the idea. _I'm not Jon Dovahkiin anymore, I'm Jon of Solitude. _He decided that it was for the best if he ignored everything that linked him to his past laas, _life_. But no matter how hard he tried, the marks remained: the scars on his face, the badge of office, his power over thu'um, and the draconic that still passed through his head. _It would never end,_ he reflected somewhat sadly, but also with another, unidentified feeling. Was it kah, _pride_?

The bartender finally turned to Jon and asked him what he wanted.

'I'll have an ale,' he told the Nord.

'Fine. That's six septims.'

'_Six! _When I left it was three septims.'

'Times change, what with the war and all.'

Normally Jon would have put up with it and paid, but he knew he was being cheated. 'I'll take it for three septims,' he insisted.

'No, you won't. You'll take it for the price.' He stood against Jon's gaze and glanced at a man behind him. Jon turned to see a guard watching him from over his own mug.

'Fine,' Jon passed over the money and took the ale. He was about to move off before the bartender called him again. 'What is it?' Jon asked, grumpily.

'You said you've been here, and I swear I recognize you. What was your name again?'

_Jon Dovahkiin. _'I never told you,' he replied curtly. Names were special to the person, and he didn't want to bandy his about, but seeing as he lived here, people would know soon enough anyway._ Jon Dovahkiin. _'Jon, of Solitude,' he said.

'Jon Solitude? Ysold's husband?' Jon nodded. 'Where have you been? Talos, what happened to your face?'

'Stories for another time.' All of the sudden, he didn't feel all that thirsty. 'I'm going to go. Give the ale to someone else.'

Jon left the bartender looking dumbfounded, and exited, sucking in the clear su, _air_. And then he coughed again. _This town stinks. _He resolved to try and do something about it later, before heading to his horse to untack it. Jon was just about to mount up, but a voice halted him.

'What do you think you're doing?' It was the same Guard that had stopped him earlier.

'Mounting my horse,' Jon replied, warily.

'Well, all 'orses are the property of Thane Stead, so I suggest you hand it over, then there won't be a problem.' The Nord grinned through yellow teeth. _It's another chance to cheat me, _Jon thought, angrily. _What's happened to this town? _A darker idea crossed Jon's mind; _or have I always been blind to it instead? _

'No, they're not. This is bullshit and I refuse to go along with it.'

The guard looked surprised. 'Fine, but there are other ways that a man can get what he wants.' The Nord rested his hand on his axe lightly. 'So, give that 'orse.'

'Take it yourself,' Jon shot back, determined not to be cowed by a coward with a weapon.

The Guard looked surprised; he obviously wasn't used to being challenged. 'You're giving me that horse.' He reached out a haal, _hand_, and grabbed the reins tightly.

'Get off my horse,' Jon said through gritted teeth. His eyes blazed.

'No, I don't think I will.' The Nord started to pull at the reins, but Jon grabbed the Guard's arm and twisted. It snapped like a twig and the man screamed. The Dragonborn kicked the Guard to the ground before mounting his horse, leaving the corrupt man in the mud without a second glance.

**It was vul, **_**dark,**_** when Jon of Solitude **finally saw the farm. It was just as he remembered, with its small, ploughed fields and modest house. Jon remembered building it himself, and as he gazed at the rough work, which had required a carpenter to later repair properly after a tough storm, the memories came flooding back. Jon estimated that it was around dinner time, and that any time he arrived was going to be met with surprise. He just wanted to return to normal, and he tried to push away the thought of the attention he would get if he entered now. _It's all in the past, _he told himself, before making his way down to the house.

Now that he was outside it he noticed that some of the wood had been changed, likely as a result of some strun, _storm_. Jon was slightly disappointed to see that things had moved on without him. _But no more…_

The door was small, always too small for him, but at least that had stayed the same. Jon was glad to know not everything moved on without him. His heart beat in his chest, lightly at first, but as he inched closer to the door his sos, _blood_, rushed through his veins, making him light headed. His face felt hot and uncomforatble. His hand moved closer, and then he pushed it open. It wasn't locked, and there before a yol, _fire_, eating at a small table, were Ysold and Alsfur.

He was speechless, and they looked back at him in shock. Jon found his voice and straightened up past the door.

'I'm back.'

Ysold ran at him, her own dinner forgotten and Jon swung her up, kissing her passionately. Alsfur stayed a little back, regarding this new man warily before Jon returned Ysold to the ground, who was flushed and breathing heavily, and knelt down.

'It's me, Father.'

Alsfur recognised the voice and stance and he too ran at Jon, hugging him fiercely. Jon noticed how much he had grown; he was far taller than any normal boy his age, nearly five foot at eight years old! He stroked his son's dark hair, not quite black, but not quite brown, before wrapping his hand around Ysold's waist and repeating the words.

'I'm back.'

**Review please. That's all I can say.**


	49. A Domain Without Gods

**Okay, this chapter was quite weird as I've never written anything like it before. In any case though, I'm really excited. Once the next chapter is done, then it all kicks off! Like I said, it was weird writing this. But onto the thanks. **

**To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked Jon's inner turmoil. There's more of that next. To There She Goes, thanks for the review. It's cool to know that you like the Alea/ Ulfric relationship. Even if you do call it a wild night 'with The Bear.' To each their own. To HereLies, I loved the great comments in your review. Jon doesn't need to bother with getting a longhouse as a Thane… To That Crazy Halo Girl, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like Jon's family! You'll see more of the new Skyrim sitcom next. To Panda, cheers for the review! As I said, I too am neutral, so stuff will happen, but just as you wouldn't give up on Game of Thrones, so too wait out my story, AND THEN complain at the end. But I'm glad you'll waiting for more chapters and read the thing I said to Cool Dude. Don't worry, Ulfric has plenty of flaws! To Lisa, thanks for the review. The constructive criticism was… tough, HOWEVER you're right! Jon is a little flat so I'm doing a buff up of all the characters emotional stuff. Hopefully this Ralof chapter will be the start. Please comment on it, I want to see if I'm improving. As for going back, I will eventually, but at the moment I'm hyped for the new plot twist and moments I'm adding to the story! Thanks for the help! To BrunetteAuthorette99, cheers for the review! Glad you liked the reunion! To JakMartheDarkWarrior, thanks for the review. You're right, no one takes Jon's horse. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. You will see Jon's families reaction to more than just his dragon-ness eventually. It will be included! Also, as for your second one: you said 'Jon would make a better Stormcloak.' I find that very ironic, and you'll see why soon… Thanks! To Killjoy66293, thanks for the favourite! And to flaze, thanks for the story alert! **

**Here we go! (I say that way too much.) **

**Ralof, of Riverwood **

**Ralof, of Riverwood sat in the hold, **musing. He thought about recent events and how he came to be where he was. It still made no sense.

They had left Windhelm about two weeks ago. Ralof had been assigned to The Storm, along with Jarl Ulfric, who had suddenly decided that Ralof wasn't ready to lead his own ship, no doubt with some insistence by the Seastride's. And so here he was, acting as Ulfric's second. But even that was being undermined by the Jarl…

Ralof was still surprised by the sudden turn in events. One minute, he was favoured by the Jarl to lead a longship into battle, maybe more, but now he was stuck in a dead-end position where he was encouraged to do as little leading as possible and instead act only as a common sailor. It made no sense to Ralof; the only thing he could think of in his long hours of musing was that he had somehow upset the Jarl with his suspicions of the Seastride's. But he wasn't wrong, he couldn't be.

Ralof couldn't explain it, but he had a way of judging men. The Seastride's were loyal to a point, after which they were liable to betray, and Ralof had simply wanted to inform the Jarl of this danger. But he had been refused; worse, shunned, reprimanded. It left a bitter feeling in his mouth, one born of embarrassment and humiliation. _Whatever the Jarl had seen in me before was gone now,_ he mused silently.

The ship rocked, and Ralof tried to push down his nausea, but he couldn't. He threw one hand on a timber holding up the deck from the hull and heaved himself up from his patch on the floor. Ralof staggered up onto the deck and heaved over the side, into the deep, dark, rushing ocean.

The Captain looked over the side, as people often are as captivated as they repulsed by a fear. And the sea was most definitely a terror for Ralof. He turned away and tried to forget the crushing black of the water below him, or the horrors that awaited him at the bottom. That was his fear; what happened if you fell in and survived to the bottom? Was it littered with the skulls of dead sailors? He knew he was being irrational, but that was what a terror often is: fear of the unexplained.

Ralof of Riverwood threw up again over the side again, and then wiped his mouth, feeling a little better now. He made his way over to the centre of the deck, noticing the dark clouds that were quickly covering the sky. Darien was there, a Seastride man he had been able to befriend despite his own suspicions, and a seasoned sailor. The other Nord was working on a knot, though its exact use escaped Ralof.

'How are you coping?' Darien asked, without looking up. He had identified the Captain's fear almost immediately, and helped him to cope with the long sea voyage so far.

'Shit,' Ralof said dryly.

'Well, count your stars,' Darien said. He was a man of little words.

'And why is that?' Ralof asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'We could have been stuck in a storm.'

'Then we'd be… shitstormed.' The two Nords laughed; they needed to in a situation like this. Sea travel was never a good thing. The water was too unpredictable, too fickle, hence why there was no God of the Seas; because it acted on its own, regardless of any divine intervention.

'I've lived at sea my whole life, but even I agree you'd be better on land,' Darien said.

'Why don't you choose another post?'

''Cause the Divines saw fit to curse me with a skill at sea, but little else.' They laughed again, and Ralof slapped the other Nord's shoulder. Darien had black hair, like Jon's but not quite as dark, and murky brown eyes. Ralof had always thought of them as the bottom of a tankard. Darien thought that meant he was a drunk, though Ralof had seen him consume ale faster than a tame giant, so the simile had stood.

The Captain turned his mind to what had been the source of his original musing; Jarl Ulfric.

'Here, Darien, you know the Jarl?'

'Not personally, but I see enough of the man to make my own impressions.' **(Darien has an Irish lilt to his words, but seeing as that country doesn't exist in Tamriel, I've had to make this an unofficial entry.) **

'What do you think of him?'

'Same as ever.'

'Do you think he's changed?' Ralof insisted.

'And why would that be?' Darien's eyes glinted with amusement. _Typical sailor: the world's nothing if not a joke._

'Falkreath. The other men claimed that someone he was close to died in there.'

'That cock up? You mean Ulfric's got with a woman? Talos, it's about time he produced a squalling baby boy from between a pair of legs.'

'I guess,' Ralof said. 'She's dead now.'

Darien sobered up instantly. 'Oh, well. Life is a disappointment.' He returned to his task.

'So, you think he's changed? And not like a Nord who got lucky. I mean, what do you think?'

For once, Darien didn't take it as an excuse for a joke. He sat up and looked at Ralof seriously. 'I think that Ulfric has lost touch with why he started this war.'

'What do you mean?'

'Before, it was for the people, for Skyrim. Now, I think there's another reason behind this attack, behind this war, and I'll bet on the Divines it's not as pure as it was originally. It that what you wanted to hear?'

Ralof looked down, still consumed by curiosity… and disappointment. He had thought as much, even before Jarl Ulfric rejected his help or opinions. The Nord was different, in his stance, his attitude, and Ralof was beginning to have doubts as to whether this is the man he wanted to follow originally. The speech about Clan Stormcloak he had been subjected to further enforced this belief. It had sounded more like a poor attempt for Jarl Ulfric to make himself believe in his cause. Nonetheless, regardless of any other factors, first and foremost was his loyalty to the Stormcloaks, no matter who led them. Ralof would ensure that their goals survived, in any way he could, as was his oath.

'Thanks, Darien.' He clapped the other Nord on the back and made his way over to the entrance to the hull, avoiding Jarl Ulfric who stood talking with a man near the main cabin. He glanced up into the sky again. _Those clouds are dark. Too dark. _As he looked up, a raindrop fell into his nose. He wiped it off quickly, as if that could stop the coming storm, but with a feeling of dread he realised that is was coming soon.

The wind picked up, tugging at Ralof's shirt and hair. The rain started falling more heavily, and he felt the deck grow slippery beneath his feet.

'STORM! TO YOUR POSTS!' A voice rang out suddenly, but without hesitation the Seastride men instantly flew into action. Jarl Ulfric was just as inept on a ship as Ralof, but it didn't stop him trying to control the situation. He thrust aside the man bellowing the orders and started directing the men. Ropes flew and water splashed up on the deck and men hurried to their tasks, harried on by the rising ferocity of the storm.

'Captain Ralof!' It was the Jarl. 'I want you to oversee the men up on the rigging. Get rid of the sail!'

'My Jarl, there must be someone else!'

Ulfric's gaze was steel. 'Now!'

Ralof nodded and made his way to rigging, which was being ripped apart the wind. He was nearly thrown off the deck as he stumbled over to it but Ralof managed to hold on tight to the nearby rail, pouring his will into battling against the elements. Suddenly Darien was there with a rope which he tied around Ralof's waist, anchoring him to the ship. They exchanged a nod before reaching for the snapping ropes and starting to climb up the twisting rigging. _Bloody Gods and their wind. Take it over to the Imperials and leave us alone. _But the wind, sadly, proved uninterested in Ralof's demands and instead hit them harder.

The sea foamed beneath them, pulling at the ship, its icy hands scrabbling onto the deck. Ralof watched one man get thrown off along with a heavy crate of weap0ns. _The fight has just become that much harder, _he thought grimly.

The Captain finally reached the top, where they could furl up the sail, but his breath came out ragged. He gulped in air, and water filled his mouth instead, choking him. Ralof spluttered out rainwater and looked down. The sail was massive, and along the line of the mast men were working fearfully, trying to keep a hold onto to the slippery wood. _This is suicide! _But he had been ordered to help, so he reached for the nearest rope that he could use to hoist up the sail, trying to ignore his fear. It didn't let him go though. It ate as his insides and the longer he waited, the more knew he couldn't do this. He tried to pull the sail up, to occupy his mind and finish the task as quickly as he could, but then the rebel lost his footing and fell.

And like that he was dead.

The air rushed up at his face, tearing at his hair and beard. Water hit his face with the force of an arrow and he screamed as the deck raced up, the noise personifying his fear.

And then a sharp tug. His leg broke and he screamed with the agony. The rain hit his face, but as he opened his eyes, his own tears mixing with the pouring water, he realised that he was stuck in the netting a few feet above the ground. He whooped his pleasure before the sharp stab of his broken limb returned. Ralof gritted his teeth and pulled out his dagger as jolt of the ship made him whimper anew and the tears came more fiercely. The rebel swallowed painfully and then began to saw at his bonds. The rope was soaked and with each cut water poured out over his already soaked hands. _At… least I'm excused… trying to… raise the… bloody, shitting sail. _

The dagger suddenly snapped the last rope and he fell to the ground, landing heavily. He let out a moan and waited for the dancing spots in front of his eyes to disappear before struggling to find some support on the deck. The rail wasn't too far, so he crawled painfully to it, trying to avoid the frantic bustle of men on the deck. Ralof finally reached it, only to find Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak near him. The Jarl was trying to pull at a rope to hold a crate above the water. His face was streaked with sweat and his powerful arms were working furiously. But that wasn't the problem.

Behind him was a Nord, dressed in the lively of Clan Seastride. He was looking around cautiously and moving forward, his hands raised, licking his salty lips. Ralof glanced around in a haze of burning pain. Everyone was otherwise occupied; _the Nord is going to push the Jarl overboard_, he realised suddenly, without doubt. He couldn't explain it but the man's jittery mouth, his shifty stance, his flickering eyes; they all told a story. He moved closer, ignoring the wounded Captain who was leaning over, moaning and writhing with pain and focusing on the Jarl. But Ralof saw him.

The Nord moved closer, and reached out his hands for the Jarl, who was still occupied with his task. He made his move suddenly, making to grab Ulfric's back and throw him overboard, but Ralof sprang from the rail, literally launching himself into the man on his good leg without a coherent thought. His dagger punched through the Seastride man's neck and they fell, only now Ralof realising what he had done.

His bad leg hit the ground, and he let out a roar of agony. Blood covered his hands and he threw up on the deck, wishing the pain to stop. Ulfric turned to investigate the noise and quickly assessed the situation through his shock; a man dead and another, a Captain screaming in agony. But this was Captain Ralof, the man who had brought unfounded suspicions to him earlier, and this dead Nord… was a Seastride bannerman.

Ralof watched as Ulfric's face contorted in fury. He pulled up the moaning Captain, who was laughing now with the pain, unable to control the choking sobs of strange pleasure. _A murderer… I look like one… _Ralof realised through the pain and tears and blood. And then the darkness of the cabin engulfed him and he hit hard, dry wood.

**Please review! Do it now, or I'll hunt you down. Come on you know you want to. You do, come on. In Ben Stiller's words in Starsky and Hutch; 'Do it. Do it. Do it.' **


	50. An Unclear Image

**Listening to 'On The Radio' by Scouting For Girls. Good song. I only discovered it recently. As for this chapter; next one kicks things off. I'm pleased with parts of this, especially the climax. I hope you think it's good. In chapter we explore Jon a little more and it all actually KICKS OFF! **

**Onto the thanks! To JakMar, it turns out you're Irish! (I think. Your message made it sound that way.) Who knew? (Besides yourself obviously.) Here's a Jon chapter, thanks for your review. To HereLies, I love the fact that liked this chapter. I'm =glad you appreciated the 'if only' thing, because you're right, this chapter is littered with it. Thanks for another great review! To BrunetteAuthorette99, cheers for the review. I'm glad you like Ralof's sea fear and I liked the who 'gut feeling saves the day' thing. Next, to Delphine hater, thanks for the review. I'm glad you realised the irony, because it really is. Big time. (I'm going to quote it when appropriate!) Also, as for Ralof, just read and wait… To RaptorZeroOne, thanks you for the review. Even if it was a bit weird. To DraGG, good to see you again! Hope you enjoyed life. I wasn't sure about the storm scene so I'm glad you liked it! To Lisa, thanks for the review, I'm pretty sure I haven't done it on this chapter, but I will try and make it less lengthy, and sharper. However, as a third person POV there is less emotion than say, first person where there is loads. However, you're still right, though during action scenes I prefer to focus on making them cool, however I will puncture it will short sentences describing emotion. To Zeth92, thank you for the follower thing. And lastly to The Waylander for the favourite and the story favourite. Okay, cool, that's it. **

**To HereLies, thank you for the great editing. Without it this chapter really wouldn't be half as good. Thanks for being cruel sometimes, but ultimately making it _much_ better. **

**Hey, JakMar, you wanted a longer chapter. Here it is. **

**Jon, of Solitude **

**Jon of Solitude woke early as he always did. **He enjoyed the peace of watching the sun rise on a new day, but also, more importantly; it allowed him to get a head start on the days farming. He sat up, and looked at Ysold, sleeping peacefully next to him, her hand grasping his arm. Smiling, he lay back down on his elbow and stroked her hair, marvelling in its simple delights after so long apart. Jon blew into her ear and she made a cute face of displeasure before he reached down and lightly stroked her cheek. She grabbed his hand and he let it be taken, lying down next to her and then moving in closer.

Jon had been back for a week now, enjoying the simple pleasures of a farming life again. Working the fields was tough, but no more so than having to fight off a band of men, or defeat a dragon god. Jon hadn't told Ysold, or Alsfur, about his past adventures. When they asked he would just nod noncommittally and murmur something about later. Jon told them elements of his tales, such as what happened down south, that he had travelled to Whiterun, all detailed in his letter that Ralof had carried, but he could tell Ysold was waiting for more, something he hadn't said yet. He was trying to forget that part of his life and everything that came with it, and instead embrace what he had. That said, Jon planned to keep a careful eye on Alsfur, just in case he showed any _draconic_ qualities.

He returned his attention back to Ysold, who was waking up slowly. Jon watched her, waiting for her attention to rest on him. When it finally did, she smiled and let out a little humming noise before raising an eyebrow.

'Really, now, Jon?' She asked sleepily. His hand was massaging her breast slowly.

Jon nodded, leaning down to press soft kisses on her neck. 'I've got a long day ahead. I need a kickstart.'

'You got a kickstart yesterday, and last night. I think you can go without it.'

He looked at her; she wasn't serious. Ysold just wanted him to fight for it a little. 'Well, if I get a kickstart,' he moved his large hands over her small waist and stomach; 'I'll work so hard we'll be able to buy a palace as large as any Jarls.'

She smiled at him, before nodding gently. Jon raised himself over her. It was a good start.

'**You should head into town today,' **Ysold told Jon as she ate cold ham and bread for breakfast.

'Aye, I could.'

'You should, and will. It's about time someone else got to deal with you but me,' Ysold continued.

'It's not only you who enjoys my company. Alsfur's here as well.'

Alsfur decided to speak up. 'I think you should go to meet the other men.'

Jon pretended he hadn't heard him. 'Do you know why I was never invited to the New Year festivals, Ysold?'

'Okay, so you're quiet and a little cold, but it's been a year. They've probably forgotten you.'

'Thanks.'

'I know you've always been a little independent, but you need to bond.' Jon just made a grumbling sound. Other people were fine, but if he could do a job alone, he would. _It's probably a pride thing_, Jon decided.

'Well, you're going and I don't care for any excuses you have.' She lifted her chin and mock stalked from the room.

Jon watched her go and then leaned over to Alsfur. 'Women; be careful. Once they have you, they're never let go.' He stood, and called out his assent. Ysold came back in a kissed him, then shoved Jon out of the house, throwing his cloak out after him. Solitude caught it and pulled it over himself. A light snow was falling over the farm. _It'll be winter very soon. _That rose feelings of dread inside him; after all winters were always harsh and deadly. Jon feared for his family, as he always did; it was not uncommon for even grown men to die in the heavy snow that fell at winter's height, let alone a child like Alsfur. _Still, at least we don't have it as hard as the Nords up in Winterhold. _Over there the snows often reached at four feet deep.

Jon reached his horse and started to saddle it, before mounting and setting a steady pace up to Rorikstead. He enjoyed the breeze in his face, even if the day was cold. It spoke of cleanliness and more importantly, a new start; his chance to break away from his old life utterly.

It took about forty minutes until he saw the town come into view. Jon wasn't sure where work would be, so he decided to head up to the Thane's longhouse, where he could probably find someone to tell him about team projects, etc. That way he could work _and_ further Ysold's insistence of a 'social life', although Jon himself was unsure about the idea's overall virtues. He had never been a social man; he was far too closed and independent. Ysold knew that, but it never had stopped her trying to get him involved.

The Thane's longhouse was located in the centre of town, but it didn't take long for Jon to ride through the houses. There wasn't a 'street', rather the ancient road that connected all of Skyrim, called 'The Winter Road' ran through the town and at the same time acted as the closet thing to a 'main street'. As a result, most of the smaller houses and vendors were clustered around its path.

Jon made his way up to the longhouse, a large building made of timber with a wide porch, a long roof made of thatch and the banners of Clan Stead adorning either side of the entrance. Jon thought back to Dragonsreach and he realised just how unimpressive he now regarded the longhouse. He smiled wryly; there was a time when he considered it the lap of luxury.

There were guards on either side of the entrance but Jon of Solitude approached them confidently, spurred on by a slight disregard for the Thane's dwelling and his own arrogance in his abilities.

'What do you want?' One of the guards asked him, unimpressed by his display of confidence, which annoyed Jon a little.

'I'd like to see the Thane.'

The guards started laughing. 'No, one sees the Thane,' the same Nord told Jon between his laughter.

Jon was irritated by their complete disregard for his request, and lack of respect. He was the Dragonborn! 'Fine, let me see the Steward then.'

The guards stopped laughing, after an annoyingly long time, and the man who seemed to talk for them nodded. 'Right, I'll go get him,' the guard said and left. Minutes passed, in which the snow cleared off only marginally, before the Guard returned. Jon was relieved to see that he had waited for a good reason; the Steward accompanied the man.

The Steward was another Nord. He had short brown hair. His face was sharp, and unwelcoming. _Ralof would say that that was the mark of a good Steward, _Jon chuckled a little before returning his own attention to the Steward, who was looking peeved at having been ignored, no matter how slight.

'Yes, what is it?' The other Nord's cold, condensing manner riled Jon. The man obviously couldn't be bothered to give any of his day to his own people, and it made Jon want to act, but he pushed the feeling down with a struggle. _I'm just Jon of Solitude, _he reminded himself.

'I'm looking for work in the fields for a day,' Jon told the Steward.

'Fine. We don't have any work now-'

'Then look harder. We both know that you look to employ as few a people as possible.'

The Steward looked baffled by the display of insolence. 'As you say. There is work, but not for disrespectful peasants. Good day.' The Steward turned away, but Jon grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. The guards stepped forward, but Jon was angry now and his eyes blazed. His throat began to tighten a little.

'Fine, see to the east field,' the Steward told Jon before wrenching away. He left without another word, but the guards looked at Solitude menacingly. He wasn't intimidated in the slightest as he strode back to his horse, satisfied by the outcome, without another word. He was a little worried by what he had done, assaulting a Steward, but he didn't bode on it anymore; it was done now, and he couldn't do anything about it, regardless of the consequences. Jon filled his head with a pleasant image of Ysold, and mounted his horse.

**He reached the fields a few hours from midday. **From his mount Jon surveyed his surroundings, looking for the east field. It wasn't hard to spot to the mass of men assembling for work, and he spurred his horse over to them. As he arrived he attracted several curious glances and mutters. _I suppose it's not everyday you see a peasant with a horse and a set of fearsome scars on his face, _Jon thought dryly.

The fact that he wasn't looking forward to today's work didn't help overcome the stares either. As he had said to Ysold, he was very independent. The only reason he had ever agreed to Delphine's or even Paarthurnax's help was because he had been in the dark as to what he had to do. _But in a field, I'm more than capable_, Jon assured himself.

Their gang leader, a Carl to hear the stout Nord say it himself, rode a horse and looked at Jon with a mixture of disbelief and anger until the other Nord dismounted. It wasn't a crime to own a horse, but as very few people could afford it, to have one was seen as usurping someone's authority. Carl Juring, their leader, was obviously such a Nord even though Jon noticed that he lacked a surname. _In reality, he's just as common as any of us, _he reflected._ Except I'm not common. _The thought came unbidden to Jon's mind and it required extensive force to crush it back beneath his consciousness. As he had privately speculated earlier, his old life would never leave him…

They were turning over a winter crop of rye, in preparation of the fast approaching winter and so the Carl quickly assigned them lots. Jon was sent to a field in the middle of many others, and given a hoe to turn over the ground with. Jon dug into the work with a single minded determination that he always had when committing to a task; a determination that sometimes defied all logical reasoning, even when things looked to be on the edge of failure. It reminded Jon of someone vaguely, but he didn't bother to dig through past memories. _They are the past now, nothing else. _

'Can I help you?' A voice asked.

Jon wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up to another Nord there. He was young, about nineteen, eleven years older than Alsfur with fiery red hair and a tall gangly figure.

'What?'

'Do you want help?' The Nord asked again.

'No, I'm fine. Though I appreciate it.' Jon bent back to his task, but the young Nord was not giving up.

'Your fields twice the size of mine. It's really no problem, I just want to help.'

_What did Ysold say? Socialise_? Jon stood and waved a hand at the field. 'Fine, go ahead.'

'Right!' The youth leapt into his task with an enthusiasm that scared Jon. He shook his head and returned to work, but it wasn't long before the Nord was talking again.

'My name's Erik. My father owns the inn, but he sends me out to plough the fields for extra coin.'

Jon just grunted, but the youth wasn't deterred in the slightest.

'I hate it,' Erik said cheerfully. 'What I really want to be is a warrior!'

Jon let out a dry laugh. 'No, you don't.'

Erik had stopped working. 'Why not?'

Jon looked up to see the young Nord looking crestfallen and he felt a little guilty about being so blunt. Looking at Erik's eager young face, he suddenly remembered all the people that had helped him recently. Teaching him skills he might not have learnt otherwise. Maybe he should follow their example? 'Well, it's a hard life,' he said awkwardly.

Erik perked up again. 'I know, but no harder than farming, right?'

Jon considered this. Hadn't he just said that earlier? He nodded without a sound, digging his hoe into the ground.

'Why do you always look so sombre?' Erik asked, with the curiosity of a youth. 'You know, my Father says that you look sombre if you haven't got enough action recently.'

Jon made no reply, instead chuckling at the boy's ignorance.

'So, why do you look so sad?' Erik was beginning to push Jon a little with his excessive questioning. 'I think… Whoa, those are fearsome scars.' His mind worked as he put two and two together. 'Hey! Are you a warrior?'

Jon sighed, and stopped working. If he told Erik about his adventures now, no doubt they would be all over the town soon.

'No.' 

Erik had forgotten his last question. 'Can you fight?'

Jon continued to plough. 'I have,' he conceded.

'What with?'

Jon looked up, if only to get the youngling off his back. 'A sword.'

'Can you use a mace?'

Jon ignored him.

'Have you ever used a spear?'

Jon stopped working and leaned against his hoe, his eyes locked into the dirt beneath his feet, trying to ignore the stream of questions.

'How about an axe?'

'It's the same as a sword!' Jon burst out.

Erik shook his head with a knowing air. 'Actually an axe is a flat weapon, with a heavy end. This makes it harder to balance, so in fact they're nothing alike.' 

Jon continued working without a sound, although he was secretly amused by the youngling's presumption.

'Personally, I want to use a sword. Do you have any ti-'

'WHAT IS THIS?' A voice bellowed. Erik looked round in shock and Jon stood with weary resignation. It was the Carl. 'What aren't you working?'

'No, my Carl,' Erik stuttered. 'I was… er…'

'And you haven't even started on your field!' Jon looked over to see Erik's, admittably small, field completely unploughed.

'I think you need a lesson, boy.' The Carl drew a tough stave from a bag at his horse's side and dismounted, his heavy cloak swirling around him.

Erik looked ready to burst into tears. Jon had no part in this; he hadn't encouraged Erik, and only answered him out of courtesy, but he didn't want to see the excitable youth beaten. He was only a youngling after all. A just Nord would give him a warning, but Carl Juring didn't even look like he was considering that. When he thought about it, Jon _did_ feel a little guilt over his own part, but also anger at the Carl for being so cruel. He had to act.

As the stave descended on the whimpering Nord, Jon imposed his arm. The stave slammed into it, sending jolts of pain through his body, but Jon held firm, gritting his teeth. He hadn't expected it to be so hard. For his part, Erik looked thrilled by the sudden heroics, completely forgetting his punishment. Even Jon was shocked by his own intervention, but if it was possible, the Carl looked far more surprised.

The Carl's expression slowly evolved from shock, to furious rage. 'What is this?' He asked deadly quiet.

Jon didn't know what to say, so he let his instincts take over. 'Leave the boy alone, he's obviously new to this! How was he supposed to know you got beaten for leaving your post!'

'It's not acceptable. But now, for your insolence, you'll be beaten as well,' Juring decided.

'I think not. I'm the Dragonborn, and you're just a Carl! Hin nikriin! I'm in charge here!' It came out arrogantly before Jon could rein it in.

'Liar!' The Carl made to swing his stave at Jon, but the Nord blocked it and barrelled into the Skyrim knight. He smashed his fist into the Carl's face and blood spotted his clothes, out of control in his fury. It took five other men to pull him back. Jon roared out his anger and shook them off before walking away, leaving the bloody Carl surrounded by onlookers.

Jon Dovahkiin left the fields, and his horse, instead choosing to walk through the town, the outlying fields, his mind a blur. Thoughts exploded against his consciousness, throwing forward images of dov, _dragons,_ and blood, Paarthurnax raised over him, Alduin in a dark world surrounded by mutilated bodies, the Jarl of Whiterun wrapped in fire, steel falling to the floor… He saw dark warriors descending on his farm, burning all. High Elves marched across the fields of Skyrim, and he saw a white tower burning. An immense army led by a blond Nord with blazing eyes lined up on an open field surrounded by fierce snow. The Nord led a doomed charge into a line of spears as a white knight flew ahead of his army, his loyalty undecided. And then a blade fell into Jon's vision and he woke, covered in sweat, puzzled to find himself laying on the frozen ground.

He just lay there, in shock as he processed the images. What were they? Was that Nord with the army, Ulfric Stormcloak? Who were the elves? Where was Alduin? Jon couldn't process it all, but he couldn't ignore it. It had been seared into his mind, filling him with fear. He couldn't shake it, but nor could he understand it. He needed to get home. It was dark, and the stars were beginning to come out.

Jon found himself in the middle of the track that led to his farm. He got up and trudged back, weary and foot sore, still in his sos, _blood,_ specked shirt, lamenting the days events and very much disturbed by his dreams. _At least the night is clear. _It didn't take long for him to see the farm. It turned out he had been near it when he fell.

Jon made his way up to the front porch and pushed open the door. The scene he saw was even more painful than his dreams. Ysold sat at the table, with a Nord Jon recognised as the Steward from the longhouse. On his arrival the man got up and swept past him without a word. Dread filled Jon, and he sat opposite Ysold. She was on the verge of tears, he noticed. The dread took further hold, as did the desire to comfort her. But he suspected that was one thing he couldn't do.

'Why, Jon?' Ysold finally asked.

'What do you mean?' He knew exactly what she meant.

'Why did you attack that Carl?'

'He was hurting another Nord; a young one.'

'Since when was it your duty to save people, Jon?' He didn't answer. 'You've changed. You don't answer my questions, you come back with these massive scars. What happened?' Ysold looked desperate.

Still Jon remained silent.

'They're seizing the farm. We're to be evicted because of your actions. Is that what you wanted? Think about Alsfur!'

Jon looked at her, deep set pain in his eyes. 'If I tell you, things will never be the same.'

Ysold looked at him expectantly, but Jon just looked down again. He couldn't bring himself to tell her, but he knew she deserved to know. He couldn't bear to change the one thing that had remained constant, his last tie to his old life. He couldn't let it go.

'I decided to… I decided that you need to… leave, Jon,' her voice was strained. Tears ran openly down her face.

Jon looked up, his darkest fear realised. He started shaking his head, as if this could banish the coming storm, opening his mouth to speak.

Her eyes were dark with fury and pain though. 'You had your chance. I was happy to wait, but only for the man that left. Not you.'

'You can't.' Dread fully engulfed Jon. he couldn't breath. It pressed down on all sides. Fear, true fear was what he felt. Fear of being parted from Ysold after so long.

'I already have.' She stood and Jon got up as well without a word, bowing to the inevitable. He backed out of the house only to find his things packed and set against the wall.

Jon looked back, opening his mouth, intending to fight, but suddenly he couldn't. He was drained, and Alduin stared back at him, choking on laughter.

Jon did the only thing he could. He picked up his stuff and left, trudging through the night. He couldn't say when Rorikstead came into view, but it did, eventually. During his walk he reflected on what she had said. It was true that he was changed. His moods were unpredictable, his answers less focused, more mysterious. He had hardly explained what had happened after he left. But the worst thing was that he knew that this was coming. Over the week he had realised that she had been looking on him with new eyes, trying to work him out, trying to search for the man that had left, rather than the one who had returned. Jon knew that he had been blind to it; he hadn't seen it, yet with only a little focus it was now clear to him. And that was the worst thing. He had lost her again, but this time it was his fault. Depression weighed down every step.

He passed by the buildings, his thoughts one deep, still gloom but then he saw it; four vul, _dark_, riders in black. A guard with an arm in a sling, with yellow teeth pointed in Jon's direction. He pushed himself against the wall, hoping they hadn't seen him, fear tasting bitter on his tongue. His throat was quickly tightening.

The riders advanced. He spotted steel by their side, and scaled armour from his position in the shadows. _Blades. What are they- _Then it happened. The terror descended like a black cloud, not depression; that was wiped away. _Ysold and Alsfur… _Dust flew out as they put their heels to their mounts, flying away down the path to his farm.

'NO!' Jon screamed. He started running, his legs pounding, his lungs ablaze. The night melted before him, only to reveal more night. But he kept running, his breath puncturing the darkness.

**And so the proper end begins. Please review and I can beat 'Runaway With My Heart' in terms of review/chapter ratio. Come on, we can do it! Maybe. If we really try! If you like that story better than mine then defect and REVIEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW! Anyway, thanks.**


	51. Burning Lies

**If you've thought ahead or have an idea of what happens, there's an ironic phrase near the start of this chapter. **

**As always, here are the thanks. To BrunetteAuthorette99, thanks for the review! This s**t is getting real… To RaptorZeroOne, cheers to the review. He should have spilled the beans, but alas he didn't. To HereLies, thanks for the review! I'm happy you feel for Ysold, who really deserves some kind of sympathy. To Delphine hater, thanks for your review. Their relationship will be important in the story now. Just wait and see. To JakMar, I loved your review. Yep, Jon is probably going to have to relocate, and finally accept his destiny. It's all starting to happen! To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review. I agree, RUN JON, RUN! To DraGG, I agree, Jon's actions were pretty stupid. But hey, that's what love does to a man. **

**Here it is. No more suspense. I could have put something in, but I really wanted to write this and it would have messed up my time scale thing! **

**Ysold **

**Ysold sat by the light of a small candle, **still in her dress**, **as she reflected on recent events. They were all painful, and she tried to shy away from them but every time Ysold tried to get to sleep she remembered what it was like with Jon beside her, warm beneath the covers. She sighed, a mournful sound, and looked around the room for any sign of Jon's presence. It seemed that she had been fairly thorough in her rage, in regard to his betrayal. Nothing of her husband's things remained.

Ysold knew that if he returned she would have to be tough. She had to abide by her earlier decisions, no matter how much she wanted to ignore them. _It's the best thing for Alsfur. _Jon wasn't a father figure she wanted him to look up to, not now. But then, where would he get a father figure? The pain of remarrying haunted her; Jon was second to nobody. His strength, his determination; she only hoped that Alsfur would turn out like him, eventually. Ysold could even see some of Jon's features in him now; the jaw and brow, the eyes… Especially the eyes. But how likely was it for a youngling to become the father he never knew? _Very unlikely, _she suspected glumly.

Ysold debated on whether to go into Alsfur's room and watch him sleep. At least that way she could feel less like the mother who had banished his father, and more like the one she had tried to emulate; the one who put the child before her own needs.

Ysold decided that she might as well, and so she stood and picked up the candle. As she headed for her door, the only room with one, it burst open and a man stepped in, his dark cloak slack by his sides. The darkness of the house masked his features, and her heart leapt. _Jon! _She was about to run forward and embrace him, despite her own feelings, and show him how much she loved him, but then she noticed that something was wrong. The joy that had raced through her mind faltered. _The man isn't nearly tall enough to be Jon. And he's wearing armour, so he must be a Carl of some sort. _Disappointed, she stepped forward to greet the man, guessing him to a follow up official of Jon's earlier actions, but then she glimpsed the flash of steel. Suddenly scared for her own life, and with a shocking realisation, Alsfur's too, Ysold stepped back. The candle was still in her hand.

The dark Carl advanced, and she swept the small torch at him in attack, desperate for a way to escape. She couldn't get away though, and the men knocked her candle aside with a vicious slap, where it rolled across the floor. She tried to get out from the corner he was trapping her in, and when Ysold tried to rush him he pushed her back with hardly any effort.

She screamed and he advanced as a dark shape grabbed him from behind.

The Carl was only off guard for a second before he smashed his head back, staggering the other man and sweeping his sword round. The other ducked, to Ysold's amazement, and threw the Carl onto the floor where he started straggling him, banging his opponent's head on the floor in an attempt to subdue him. Ysold smelt smoke, and looked to see the flame from the torch quickly engulfing her wardrobe.

The dark man was obviously on her side, or more so than the Carl, and she screamed out the advantage. 'The fire, there. Over there!' She pointed.

The dark man glanced back and the Carl seized on the opportunity, kicking him over. He rolled as the Carl's sword slammed into the wooden floor, and managed to kick it from his opponent's hands. The dark warrior slammed his weight down on the man, attempting to crush him, but he twisted and threw the Carl over, into the wardrobe. His black cloak caught and he screamed as the flames engulfed him. Ysold flinched at the sound and looked away, as if that could stop the torturous sound from entering her head. 

When the noise finally died down, she cautiously approached the man who had saved her, shaken by the display of ferocity. When he turned the breath was knocked out of her.  
'Jon!' She asked, incredulously. Her head started beating faster, and she looked him over, running her eyes over his matted hair, his rough stubble...  
Jon of Solitude was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and each looked like a struggle. When he spoke, his voice was faint and its weakness further tugged at Ysold's heartstrings.  
'Alsfur... Three more...' He said, almost like a whisper.  
The moment of elation, lust and surprise disappeared in the returning wake of her fear. 'Go! Get him!' She cried.  
Jon staggered to his feet and stumbled to the doorway, leaning on it as he passed through. Ysold suddenly felt deeply concerned for her husband's well being. She only just noticed the scratch on his cheek, the broken nose, and the cold sweat that covered his face.  
Ysold followed fearfully, watching the shadows as if every movement was another of the dark Carls. Jon rushed through the corridor and burst into Alsfur's room, searching it frantically. He turned to Ysold, the expression on his strained face one of great relief.  
'He's safe.' No sooner had he said this that a sudden movement rustled behind him.  
'Jon!' Ysold screamed.  
He looked perplexed before he turned. The blade fell and blood burst onto the ground.  
Time slowed and she screamed, tears streaming from her cheeks. Jon was dead, there was blood. Ysold leaned against the door, everything forgotten. But then a grunt…  
Jon had dodged, barely. There was a burst of blue light and then orange fire, tinged with silver, leaped from his mouth, engulfing the man. Her husband stepped back, each step heavy.  
'Get Alsfur,' he commanded, but Ysold limbs were frozen in shock. _Jon can use magic!_ Her heart was already racing through the adrenaline and fear, but now it felt like it about to burst from her chest.  
'You... Magic?' She spluttered, but Jon ignored her, instead handing her Alsfur, who was awake and looking between them fearfully.  
Jon regarded Ysold coolly before saying; 'I'll tell you later.'  
She nodded blankly, taking Alsfur in her arms, ignoring his questions and staring at Jon's bloody chest.  
He grimaced and reached into the fire, deftly plucking out the Carl's sword. That shocked Ysold further and she tried to point, but then remembered that she held Alsfur, and nodded her head instead, making a strangled noise.  
Jon looked out at Ysold, and followed her gaze between his hand and the blade.  
'I'll tell you later,' he repeated, gritting his teeth as he pressed his hand against his chest. 'Pass me some cloth.'  
Ysold looked around her at the rapidly burning house. Jon didn't seem to feel it, but she was finding it harder to breathe, and sweat pricked up on her forehead. In the end she decided to rip some fabric from the bottom of her dress, but before she could, footsteps sounded behind her…  
Jon swept in front of his family, but then spun around as the other Carl entered the other side of the corridor. They were trapped by two of the men; Ysold bit back her terror as she felt the fire on her back and her eyes flew between the dark Carls and Jon.  
Her husband regarded them wearily, his breath coming out in gasps, his eyes cool and focused. He muttered some intelligible words, and the warriors advanced.  
Jon swung his sword lightly from side to side before dodging the first blow, swinging his weapon around to meet the other Carl's blow, and then twisting the blades round and kicking the man away. But there was no respite as the first warrior slashed at Jon, high, low, low, high and low. He blocked the blows, each time his parries becoming slower, his face strained.  
Ysold knew she had to do something quickly, or Jon would die. She tore off a strip of her dress, bundled it into a ball and swept it into the fire. It caught and Ysold braved the heat for a second, before she threw it at the Carl attacking Jon.  
It landed in his shoulder, and his cloak caught. He fell back, wrestling with the fabric, as Jon threw his sword at the second man, who was advancing silently, at least to Ysold's ears, behind him. It smashed into the Carl's head, embedding itself in his skull. Her husband turned and walked over to the writhing Carl, looking down on him without remorse. Then he kicked him into the approaching flames, careful not to get his own clothes caught, and stepped back. He beckoned to Ysold, who came forward wearily, scared of this fearsome man who seemed about as affected by this display of bloodshed as Jon is when Alsfur falls over in some grass. He grabbed her and pulled both of them out of the house, up to four black mares, presumably the Carls steeds.  
Ysold was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, her mind a maze of confusion.  
'What was that?' She finally managed.  
'Blades… Sent to kill you… and take Alsfur.'  
'Blades?'  
Jon jerked his head to the horse and she mounted, with his help. He placed Alsfur in front of her. 'Later. Too tired,' he said, breathing heavily.  
Ysold noticed his profound weariness. 'Jon, you have to rest.'  
'No time. Can you ride?' She shook head and Jon nodded, as if he was expecting this.  
'I'll help you.' He mounted his own horse, with difficulty, clutching his chest through his blood stained shirt. 'Did you get that cloth?' He asked.  
She shook her head.  
'No matter. We have to go.' Jon held her arm and directed the horses over to the other steeds. Even in this situation, his touch exploded on her skin. Now they were free, Ysold looked her husband over hungrily, imagining how easy it would be to rip off his bloodstained shirt...  
She was jerked from her thoughts by Jon as he pulled her horse along, and tied the other two mounts to their own. They started speeded across the tundra, away from the burning farm. Ysold looked back with longing. It was all over now. They would never be able to return...  
'Where are we going, Jon? What are you doing?'  
Despite his strained features, or his ragged breath, Jon of Solitude grinned. 'I've got a prophecy to fulfil.'

**I hope that got you wanting more. Please review. Ysold is a new POV. She will feature again…**


	52. And So It Begins'

**Just this chapter and then it's the battle for Solitude! **

**Okay, on to the thanks. To DraGG, thanks for the great review! I'm glad you like the new POV in Ysold, and the fight. It's a big moment in the HBO series so I'm happy you thought it was cool! To JakMar, thank you for the review! I'm glad you thought it was awesome, and you'll find out where Jon is next chapter. To BrunnetteAuthorette99, cheers for the review. Happy to have removed the tenterhooks from you, but this one might reinstate them. To HereLies, glad you picked up on the irony, and that you liked Ysold's voice. Great comments as always! To RaptorZeroOne, thank you for the review. Ysold knows what it is, and she'll figure it out into a full circle VERY soon. To Aero, thank you for the review! I'm glad I could surprise you. In answer to your question- here. **

**Thanks for all the great reviews. I got this one out quickly- I hope its worth it. **

**Imperial General Tullius **

**The Tribune's breathe punctured cool air **of Castle Dour.

'Sir,… it's… Stormcloak.'

'Louder, take your time,' Imperial General Tullius commanded.

The messenger straightened. 'Ulfric Stormcloak is bringing a fleet here. Scout's report, sir,' he explained.

Tullius looked back down at the map again. 'How long?' He asked, fully expecting a few weeks preparation at least.

'Sir… No more than twenty four hours.'

'You're sure?' Tullius was shocked. _Twenty four hours?_

'Yes, sir.'

He looked down again. There was no time to panic; he had twenty four hours at best to make the city ready for a siege and naval attack. He breathed deeply, collecting his thoughts and ejecting any personal fears.

'Run to the Admiral, tell him to prepare. Here,' he threw his sigil ring. 'Get the fleet ready. Take a horse, take mine.'

The Tribune caught the ring and sprinted out. Tullius turned back to his commanders. They looked shocked, and scared, like himself, but he had to set an example.

'Legate Rikke, how many soldiers left in the city?'

His second-in-command, she was a tough Nord woman, capable and loyal, clad in full Imperial steel. 'Of the Legion, sir? There are four hundred left.'

The number tugged at Tullius' heart. _I arrived with five thousand men. _He couldn't believe it, but he had to. More importantly he had to move past it and use what he had.

'How many of the Jarl's own men are in the city?'

'Some two thousand.'

'I want precise figures, Rikke. You,' he pointed at a Tribune. 'Go and tell the Jarl of the attack and request her assistance.'

'As you wish, sir.' He marched out quickly.

'Rikke, this Jarl's bannermen, her, her er, troops! They can be here today?' Tullius asked, desperately.

'Yes, sir; the ones close by in the countryside. As for her Thane's own men, I… I think not.'

'Tell the Jarl to raise her banners. Get her "Thane's" to raise their men in case we should need to take the city back. That would raise how many men?'

Rikke thought a moment. 'Solitude commands about 20,000 men.'

'Get them.'

'As you wish.' She strode out and he saw her start to run as she reached the outer gate of the castle.

'Shit!' Tullius paced in a circle before coming back to his senses. 'Squire! I need my armour!'

The boy who shadowed him ran out and returned with the heavy armour in a few minutes. Together they strapped on the breastplate with the steel and leather skirt typical of Imperial armour, greaves and bracers. He wore tough boots and a half cape. All his armour was gilded, unnecessarily, Tullius thought, but he couldn't complain with the Emperor. It wasn't his place.

As the armour was fitted, Tullius had time to ponder, time to taste the fear of defeat, and the possible taste of victory with Ulfric's death. They were bittersweet together, hardly comforting, but he was stuck with them, so as he did as always did, he soldiered on grimly.

'Get on your own armour, lad. Meet me in the Blue Palace.'

The boy looked terrified, but Tullius had never been one of those General's that men loved; he couldn't comfort the boy. He realised that now. Perhaps if he had been more charismatic, if he had walked the line more often, it would be him in Ulfric's position, leading an army of Skyrim itself against the walls of Windhelm. But no matter how many times he could imagine it, it was a foolish dream. It was never going to happen. _The mistakes we make, _Tullius thought grimly. _They always catch us up eventually. _

He strode from the war room, followed by his bodyguards, making for the Blue Palace. The Jarl probably already knew about the threat, and was expecting him, so he speeded up his steps as he moved through the city. The Jarl's palace finally came into view and when he approached, the guards who stood by the doorway waved him through quickly, pointing him in the direction of the war room.

When General Tullius finally strode through the entrance, he saw a welcome sight. Grizzled Nords surrounded a map of Solitude. They all wore armour, even Elisif, although she couldn't have looked more out of place among these tough men. On his entrance her eyes lit up.

'General! Never has it been so good to see you.'

Tullius nodded. 'Right, good. What are you deciding?'

'We're looking at ways to defend the city,' said a Nord with one eye.

'That much I could guess, Nord. How do you plan to do it?'

An angry look returned his words, so it fell to Elisif to explain. 'We are looking at how we could use our catapults to sink Ulfric's ships, isn't that so gentlemen?'

The 'gentlemen' around the Jarl were clearly not pleased to have even her among them, but Tullius was satisfied. At least he had one ally in this council.

He decided it was time to put his opinion forward, before the Nords tried to take over the defence again. 'We need men to line the walls facing the mountains,' he said, pointing at the map's east end.

'Why?' A Nord stepped forward, clad in mail. It was Thane Erikur. Tullius' anger started to rise, and he couldn't keep his irritation from entering his voice.

'Because, Thane Erikur, Ulfric will likely grapple his way into the city. He can't have carried siege equipment of any great size on his ships; therefore, he has probably brought ropes and ladders already prepared, which he could carry on his ships, so that he can attack as soon as he arrives. After all, Ulfric is not a patient man.' The Thane looked subdued, if only slightly, and Tullius stepped forward to the table, satisfied. 'My Jarl, you have catapults?'

Elisif jumped on the question with the look of someone who wished to show off their small knowledge to important people. 'Yes, General, we do.'

'We'll have to use them. Set them up on the east and west sides of the walls,' he told the assembled Nords, who looked none too happy for his domination of their planning of Solitude's defence. 'That way, we can try and destroy the ships as they approach, but when they get too near, we can still use the catapults on the west wall.' Tullius glanced up at the men, who all looked somewhat abashed by his confident and impressive knowledge of siege tactics.

'My Jarl, do you have any oil available?' He continued, seizing the opportunity presented in their shock.

She looked unsure, but another Nord leapt into the fray. 'We do… General.'

'Good,' Tullius said, his mind already working with the possibilities; 'load it into barrels, and prepare the catapults to throw them. Then administer flaming arrows along the east wall, not the west; that would be a waste of supplies. Understand?'

The General pointed at a Nord. 'You, see to the catapults.' He indicated another two Nords. 'And you, see to the oil. And you can make sure the arrows are ready. Go!'

They ran off and the General turned back to the remaining Nord commanders. 'How's the mood?' They looked puzzled, and Tullius' became irritated again. 'The mood of the city. Are they ready to rebel?'

'We can't be sure.'

'Right,' Tullius said, slightly annoyed. 'Then spread the story that Ulfric is here to burn Solitude, and rape their Jarl.' Tullius looked at Elisif, apologetically. 'My apologies, Jarl Elisif.'

She looked a little pale, and gave him a nod.

'Why would we do that?' Erikur asked, his eyes boring into Tullius.

'Why? Because, we need men who want to fight for their homes, and liege-lord, and not idiot Thanes like yourself,' he shot back.

Erikur looked furious. 'You insult my honour!'

'Calm down, Nord. You'll have plenty of time to regain it in battle, never fear.'

The Thane stormed from the room, leaving Tullius and the Jarl alone with another Nord, who quickly left as well.

'You should not provoke him so,' Elisif warned the General, but she was smiling a little.

'He'll get over it. Nordic pride can be easily mended.'

'I'm not sure, General. He is a powerful enemy.'

'Indeed. But the noble Thane is all talk, I fear. We have no need of him in the coming battle. Mark my words, my Jarl, he is the man who takes more men with him than he gives. And he will flee, hopefully sooner than later.'

'But he is a Thane!' Elisif said, outraged.

'A hereditary title. The Counts of Cyrodiil are no better, I'll tell you. I've met many in my time.'

'Yes.' She looked awkward before making to leave. 'I should go and inspire the troops, General,' she said, obviously disturbed by the turn in conversation. Tullius could see that his words didn't appeal to her, but he wasn't surprised; the young Jarl was far too naïve and idealistic to see the bigger picture.

She left, and Tullius waited a bit before following her out, his mind wrapped in siege tactics and ways to repel any enemy on a wall. He wondered how determined Ulfric would be, before he remembered the peace treaty. The Skyrim Lord had been furious, apparently because of what had happened in Falkreath… The cold claws of fear clutched his heart as he realised that Stormcloak wouldn't stop until he had spent everything he had. And if he manages inspire his men in the same way…

_But angry men are stupid men,_ Tullius thought. _If I keep calm and play it carefully, with the utmost precision, it should be an easy end to the Stormcloak army._ He took solace in this idea, which was apt considering he was in city called Solitude, and continued down a corridor. With a start Tullius realised that he was lost, and he looked around with a panic before deciding to just find a place he was familiar with. But as he was about to do just that, he heard voices; one was faint, the other loud. The General's sense of curiosity and justice took hold, and he followed it down the twisting corridors of the Blue Palace.

The voices were coming from a room to his left. Tullius quickly reviewed whether it would be smart to enter before his mind caught onto the voices themselves. _Jarl Elisif, and… Thane Erikur! _He listened closer, and managed to make out the conversation; Erikur was blackmailing Elisif. Anger covered his mind like a black cloud, and Tullius forgot his earlier orders and cautions completely.

Imperial General Tullius smashed against the door, but it was locked. Frustration took the place of anger, and without thinking, he drew his sword and smashed off the door handle. He rammed it again, and it broke to reveal Erikur standing in front of Elisif, his blade drawn.

The Thane charged the General but Tullius was expecting it. He stepped back and twisted, throwing Erikur to the ground, then levelling his own sword at the Thane's throat.

'Leave, now,' Tullius growled.

The Thane scrambled to his feet and left, with one last taunt. 'You'll regret this, Imperial.' The words stuck in Tullius' mind. _He already had enough enemies, why not one more?_

Elisif stepped forward, looking shaken. 'Thank you, General. I own you a debt.'

Tullius dismissed it. 'If we survive, I'll come looking for it.' He stared out the window behind her, his face tight. 'But until then, I don't think I'm going to need it anytime soon.'

**Please review. Tell me who you think will win the coming battle! How can you do that- REVIEW! Oh, and I shut off my account so you can't just private message me. Please review! **


	53. The Fallen

**Hello guys! This is a chapter which kicks off the storm properly. (And I know I say that lot.) Next is a Ralof chapter (you guys have been asking, but I needed to work them to my time scheme for events), and then it's Sovngarde. Also, the battle of Solitude starts next. **

**Onto the thanks. I got loads of reviews, so seriously thanks! It was great to get and I'm starting to get near the magic two hundred! To ejthepinoy, I loved reading your well thought out ideas on who will win. Like I said, I asked for opinions and you gave a great one. Thanks for the review! To JakMar, thanks for the review. Glad to see your opinion! As for getting Jon a weapon- read on in this chapter! To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review. Also fun to see what readers think is going to happen! I love reading it. To Delphine hater, thank you for the review. I appreciate the good luck, and as to your request: I am not going to bring Alea back. I'm sorry, but it wouldn't work for my story, HOWEVER she will feature again, and not in a memory of Ulfric's. To BrunetteAuthorette99, thanks for the review. You did the smartest thing and didn't place a bet at all. I'm glad you liked Tullius taking charge and kicking Erikur's arse! To HereLies, cheers for your review! As always, I love your analysis of the chapter. Tullius and Erikur's feud will have long term effects… To Aero, thanks for the review. As for Ralof, he's coming up next! Erikur is the Solitude Thane who says: 'I'm a Thane of Solitude' in a dicky way, even though you are the Dragonborn. He has no beard and sandy hair. To DoctorDovah, I like your opinion, and review. One for the Imperials. Like I said, Ralof next! To Vickmackey007, thanks for the favourite and story favourite. To Lucie Anonymous, I loved receiving THREE reviews! Glad you liked Ysold's POV and placed a bet on the coming battle. One for the Stormcloaks! To Darth Rabbits, nice name, thanks for the story follower thing! To DraGG, thanks for the review. You made a good point in regard to the war. You said the Imperials have to win otherwise the war will end. True, unless Tullius escapes, they're screwed. Another Imperial score. And last of all to ephad, thanks for the story follower. This is great! I loved reading those reviews and other stuff. It was great, please keep it coming.**

**The score as it stands: Imperials- 3, Stormcloaks- 2, Other- 1**

**Jon Dovahkiin**

**Jon Dovahkiin pushed his key, **_**horse**_**,** hard over the hill and up onto its flat surface. There he stopped, and surveyed the landscape. Jon silently experienced a surge of joy that briefly broke through his immense weariness as he spotted Whiterun. But not for long...  
Ysold followed closely behind him, on her own mount with Alsfur perched on the front. Jon felt a surge of appreciation towards his family. It hadn't taken Ysold long to work past her shock and remember the old tales of Dragonborn. But what warmed Jon's heart was the fact that she had accepted that he was this legendary hero. It didn't make things better between them, but at least she knew now. Ysold had also been incredibly tolerant of their circumstances. She'd said nothing when their mounts died beneath them on the hard road, and when Jon watched the vulon, _night_, scouring the landscapes for enemies she had sat next to him, keeping him company. But she couldn't help him, not really. _It's my quest, my destiny_, Jon thought. _I have to do this myself this time._  
The fortress city of Whiterun was spread out before them. The ending point. Jon spurred his horse down the hill wearily, his breath low and rasping.  
The fight with the Blades, the race to his home, and now the forced ride of nearly two weeks had drained Jon like nothing he had ever felt. A ride of at least three weeks normally, Jon's sudden, and relentless, drive had pushed them all to their limits. Ysold was looking slightly haggard, but Jon thought he had never seen her more beautiful. In this state she looked wild, and pure. Rek los Jud. He watched as she rode past, her dress clinging tight to her sweat covered body, and he felt his arousal grow. But it couldn't happen, not now. He turned his mind away from his sensual thoughts, instead focusing his tired body onto the completion of his destiny.  
They reached Whiterun in early morning, leaving their horses in the stables and making their way through the open gates and up to Dragonsreach.  
Ysold moved closer to Jon as she studied the unfamiliar environment. 'Why are we going up to the palace?'  
He looked down at her face, set with an anxious look that Jon thought was cute, and he leaned down.  
'I know the Jarl.'  
Ysold blanched, and she looked up in awe at him. 'You know the Jarl?' She repeated in a tone that sounded dismissive, but Jon knew that secretly, she was bouncing inside.  
'He's the one who first suggested that I seek out the Greybeards.'  
'The ones who helped you discover your destiny?' Jon nodded. 'How do you know that he will welcome you in?'  
'I'm the Dragonborn, and a Thane of Whiterun. Why wouldn't he?' Jon put on a confident look, but he shared Ysold's doubts secretly; he hadn't seen Balgruuf in months and couldn't be sure of the Jarl's disposition towards him. But Whiterun was the only place he could find sanctuary now. Balgruuf had to accept him.  
They entered the palace and climbed the steps up to the Jarl's throne, Ysold at his side and Alsfur next to her. The Jarl was there, talking to his Steward, as he was the first time Jon had seen him. The Dragonborn motioned for Ysold and Alsfur to wait and strode forward, taking the knee before the Whiterun Jarl.  
If Jon had his way, he wouldn't have bowed, it was the same lack of deference which had caused him to be evicted, but this was a Jarl; he couldn't afford to not treat him with bonaar, _humble_, respect.  
When Balgruuf saw who was in front of him, his mouth worked and he studied Jon before suddenly getting off his throne and grasped the other Nord's arm in front of the whole court.  
'Jon Solitude! It has been too long.' And like that, all the tension was gone. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. 'So, why are here? I do not begrudge the visit, but still.'  
'My Jarl, I was betrayed by my former allies and I seek sanctuary here with my family.'  
'You can stay, of course. Your family is welcome in Dragonsreach. I'll have my Steward prepare an apartment for you.' He called him over and they exchanged some quick words, before he turned back to Jon.  
Meanwhile, the Dragonborn was baffled. He hadn't expected such an open welcome. 'That is most generous, my Jarl.'  
Balgruuf shared his opinion. 'It is.' He looked Jon over, his expression somewhat concerned. 'Are you alright, Solitude? You look tired.'  
Jon felt it. His limbs ached, and his vision was a little fuzzy, but he didn't have time to waste; even now Alduin was regaining his strength. Jon thought back to his dreams, in which he saw the World Eater leading an army of mutilated bodies, and he shuddered. He suspected that soon he would have to face that vol, _horror_, but he didn't know where, or when.

'Solitude, let's talk in private.'

Jon was surprised. 'What about my family?'

'Yes. I'll have someone take your family to their apartments.' The Jarl motioned and a Breton came over to direct Ysold and Alsfur to their rooms. Jon stole a glance at her; she looked puzzled, but he flashed her a weak smile to reassure them that everything was fine. Meanwhile, Balgruuf walked on ahead, leading Jon up the steps behind the throne and into a war room, which led to several other doors. Jon followed warily.

'What do you want to talk about, my Jarl?'

'Not me, him.' He pointed to a figure in grey robes, standing in a corner. On seeing the motion, the figure stepped forward, pulling back his hood.

'Argneir!' Jon was surprised to see the Greybeard here, and a little guilty. He hadn't told them where he was going, or that he had given up on his quest, but the wuth, _old,_ Nord didn't seem to mind.

'Dovahkiin. I have come here to help you fulfil your destiny.'

Balgruuf took the chance to excuse himself, with a final word; 'when you're done, meet me by the Skyforge.'

Jon gave his word, and then turned back to Argneir. 'How?'

'It is time I revealed where Alduin has gone.'

'What do you mean?' Jon asked suspiciously.

'Alduin, in his weakened state, has travelled to Sovngarde. There he feasts on the souls of the dead to regain his strength.'

Jon felt cold all of the sudden. 'Regain his strength, in _Sovngarde_?'

'He will come back stronger than ever, Dovahkiin.'

'But, I wouldn't be able to defeat him…' Jon thought back to his first battle; he had barely survived.

Argneir looked angry. 'Stop doubting yourself, Dovahkiin. If you never work past the doubt, you'll never be able to overcome him.'

'But I can't, Argneir.'

'Stop this talk! Do you want Paarthurnax's death to be in vain? Is that what he would have wanted?'

Jon already knew the answer, but he felt cowed by the Greybeard's anger and didn't reply.

Argneir's expression softened. 'Jon, you have to face him, for all of us.'

Dovahkiin realised with a start that the Greybeard had used his name, and he looked up. 'I came here to krill, _kill_, him, and I'll see it through… even to the bitter end.' His throat caught with the last words, and he swallowed.

'I know you will,' the Greybeard said gently. 'The Jarl and I have done our utmost to prepare you in the month or so since you left High Hrothgar. To find Alduin, you will have to talk with one of his allies, a dovah, yes? You will have to call one down, as they are the only one's who can find Sovngarde, but we will discuss that later. Until then, I have a gift for you. I'm sure your father would have wanted you to have it.'

Jon's curiosity was aroused. _What did his father want him to have?_ It was then that he noticed the long bundle of cloth by the Greybeard's side.

'He left it with us a long time ago. I think it only fitting that you should carry it, though I will leave the rest to someone far more worthy of telling you about you lineage.' Jon's mind caught onto the last words and his mind starting racing through possibilities of great lords and heroes, but before he could, Argneir pulled back the cloth.

It was a sword. _A beautiful sword_, Jon thought. _Strong like Keizaal, _Skyrim_. _It was a hand and a half sword, in truth longer than a traditional one by a little in the blade and handle, closer to a two handed sword than a longsword, but still undeniably with all the characteristics of a 'bastard' (nickname for a hand and a half sword), sword. The black sheath was stained, obviously by extensive age, and it had slim bands of silver that wrapped around it every foot. The bottom was made of the silvery steel, as was the mouth, where the guard rested. Draconic runes shimmered down the length of the sheath, and along the wide, straight guard that ended in points.

Argneir handed it over to Jon, who took it relevantly. The whole handle was also made of the same silvery steel, as was the blade, Jon suspected. The leather that wrapped around the grip was black, and though it too looked worn, when he gripped it, it proved to be as soft as virgin leather, and it moulded to his hand perfectly. His excitement rose steadily as he gripped the handle, preparing to draw the blade itself.

The zahkrii, _sword,_ slid from its sheath smoothly and Jon raised it to his face. In reality, though longer than the normal hand and a halfer, it suited Jon's own height very well. The balance was perfect and even though it was long, it was only as heavy as a blade half its size. And his suspicions were proved correct; the blade was indeed made of the same steel as the handle, and it shimmered as he turned it in the light. As Jon looked at it, he noticed a faint, icy blue glow along the edge of the blade as he held it up. The Dovahkiin sheathed it, noticing the roaring bear head pommel, beautifully and meticulously carved from the same silvery metal that made up the sword.

'What is this metal?'

Argneir had been watching silently until now, his eyes glittering. 'It's skyforge steel, but not the kind that you normally encounter. This is another branch of it, made in Atmora. It is thousands of years old, this blade having once belonged to Ysgramor's second son. It is a weapon the dragon's fear, as it was carried by one of the great heroes that instigated Alduin's original fall. It's name is Kodaav.'

Jon listened in silence, unable to comprehend why Argneir had given him such a special gift, one worthy of only a… hero. His throat tightened with suppressed feelings, and the obvious intent, as the old Greybeard gave him a pointed look when discussing the history of the tuz, _blade_. Jon frowned, and looked at Argneir more closely. He had no idea what the Greybeard was getting at; the only history he knew was that taught to him by Ulfric Stormcloak, all those months ago…

'Why are you giving this to me?' Jon asked, still reeling from the value of this gift.

Argneir gave him a funny look, before saying; 'all with be revealed in Sovngarde. Now, go and see the Jarl. He has another gift from you.'

Jon nodded, slightly reluctant to receive so much help for quest. But he couldn't ignore all their efforts, he couldn't afford to anyway. He was tired, bloody, and on the verge of giving up, even as he committed himself further to his destiny, so he trudged to the Skyforge outside Dragonsreach without another word.

**The Skyforge was a massive forge, **covered by a large statue in the shape of an eagle that enclosed about half of the area. The metal forge itself was immense, and around it were weapons of all kinds, constructed in the finest quality. Every manner of tool needed to work a forge was here, all constructed using skyforge dwiin, _steel_. And it was also here that the greatest blacksmith of Jon's time worked; Eorlund Gray-Mane. He was a grizzled man of fifty, with the grey hair of his ancestors and strong arms. The master blacksmith worked the skyforge, as his predecessors had for eras. In Skyrim, and quite possibly Tamriel, his skill was unmatched by anybody.

Jarl Balgruuf Wind-Shifter was waiting by the forge, his wide brow covered with sweat. On Jon's arrival he spoke a few quiet words to Gray-Mane, who stopped his own work and walked off to a corner of the forge.

'Good, you're finally here,' the Jarl said. 'It's about time.' He eyed Jon's new sword. 'A pretty blade; one capable of finishing the World Eater I hope.'

Jon's mind flashed back to his first battle, and how his sword broke so easily. This time, he suspected that it would be different. 'It has to be,' was all he said in response.

Balgruuf didn't seem satisfied with that answer, but he didn't press it. 'I knew that you would have to be prepared when your battle with Alduin finally came, so I commissioned Eorlund Gray-Mane to forge you a set of armour, I think even the World Eater would have trouble besting.'

The blacksmith came back, his arms laden with pieces of metal. Eorlund placed them carefully on the floor and stood to face Jon. 'So, this is Dragonborn, eh?' He looked Dovahkiin over. 'You'll do.'

'I have here armour, made of skyforge steel, and crafted over the past month. I put aside all tasks for this, so I expect to see the World Eater's blood on it when you get back, yes.'

Jon nodded. 'If I can, I will.'

Eorlund snorted. 'I hate those who speak in riddles.' With that, the blacksmith trudged off to continue his work.

Balgruuf put a haal, _hand_, on Jon's shoulder. 'Ah, don't mind him. The Gray-Manes have always been prickly. Take it, and put it on. Come see me when you're done.'

Jon felt like he was about to collapse, but he said nothing and squatted to see the armour better through his tired eyes.

It was impressive. Rinik hungaar. There was a knee length mail hauberk, and the links that joined it together were tiny. It had taken immense skill to construct, Jon realised. To go on top of that was a flat collar of mail to further protect his shoulders, and a striking set of plate armour that covered his upper chest, a raised part to protect the back and sides of his neck, and flexible links that covered his arms, moulding into a pair of bracers. There were also a set of mail-backed gloves, a pair of knee height greaves, and a leather gambeson. A skyforge steel dagger in a black sheath lay on top of it all. It was amazing. Only a Jun, _King_, would be able to wear it, or a great hero, and it was built to be light so that, Jon presumed, he could use it to track Alduin through ruins, and plains, and eventually, Sovngarde. He donned it slowly, his tired limbs working hard to fit it onto his body. Light as the steel was, it still weighed on Jon heavily.

Now, he was beginning to really feel his earlier exertions. His legs were on fire, and he felt the cut on his chest stab him with pain on every step he took. But his pains disappeared when Jon arrived back in the war room above the main hall. It was a strange site.

The Jarl stood in the middle, looking sick. Argneir stood next to him, his face tight, but triumphant. Balgruuf's Housecarl, Carl Irileth, was next to him, her hand gripping her own sword tightly. His Court Wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire, was also present, though he looked distracted. They had obviously all be arguing about something. Jon walked up to the group, his face questioning.  
Argneir spoke first; 'Dovahkiin, in your absence we have been discussing how to get a dragon here.'  
'I'll just issue a challenge,' Jon said, recalling his dragon lore from his days on High Hrothgar.  
'Indeed, but how to capture it?' Argneir said, in a way that suggested he knew the answer.  
'Enough of this!' Balgruuf barked. 'We all know how this will end. The old snake has already talked me into it. Use the ancient traps,' he muttered.  
'What traps?' Jon asked.  
'Dragonsreach was built to capture a dragon, Solitude. And so it did, in the case of Olaf One-Eye.'  
Jon didn't know what they were talking about, but he remained silent, using the conversation to inform himself of the details rather than admit his own shortcomings.  
'So, you'll saying I should use these traps to capture a dragon, and then... interrogate him?' Jon laughed, such was the novelty of the image.  
'Yes, yes, use them, and then let the dragon go or put it down,' Balgruuf agreed, his expression black. 'My guards are ready to man them; I've suspected that this would be the only way for a while now. With the civil war somewhat stalled, there is no better time.' Balgruuf still looked disgruntled, but his eyes gleamed with anticipation.  
'Then let's capture a dragon.' Without further ado, Jon led the group out a large door from the war room, into a light, sunny day; the last he expected to see with winter almost upon them. Irileth strode by his side, as did the Jarl, but the others remained by the door as they made their way across the massive porch that stood at the back of Dragonsreach. Jon glanced up to see a maze of chains and wood, presumably the trap, and when he reached the end of the stone walkway, he looked down over the plains of Whiterun behind the city.

Jon Dovahkiin's armour shimmered as he turned to face his companions. Balgruuf nodded, and he readied himself, drawing up what little strength remained to him, before bellowing out in draconic; 'Dovah! Hon dii bel, ahrk meyz sahrot aar of Alduin!' _Dragon! Here my summons, and come mighty servant of Alduin! _

The Whiterunions, Balgruuf and Irileth, looked disturbed by his command of the dragon tongue, but the Jarl stepped forward anyway, despite his obvious nervousness.

'How do you know it will come?'

Jon turned to face him. '_He_ will come because of my very nature. A mortal speaking the dragon tongue, and "soiling" it through this manner, will prickle any dovah's pride. Calling for Alduin's first aar, his first servant, means that the dragon which finally comes should be high in the World Eater's circles. He will know how to get to Sovngarde, if anyone does.'

'Right. How long until it arrives?'

Jon shrugged, unsure. 'It could be hours. The best thing to do is wait.' Having said this, Jon walked to a corner of the massive porch and sat down, leaning against it, determined to grab any chance he could to rest. He closed his eyes, his armour keeping him warm in the cold light, and Jon felt the embrace of sleep rush up on him.

_The ground raced along below him, many miles away. The wind rushed up under his wings and he surveyed the ground, his heart clenching as his eyes comprehended the scene below. _

_Armies writhed along the ground, tramping down on the vast expanse of flora and grass. Even now, under his brother's power, the land was still beautiful. Streams gurgled along, happily bouncing off rocks and hills. Little, well paved trails made their way through the gorgeous valley, all the way up to the mighty hall that stood upon the hilltop, watching over all. Such was its majesty that he had to turn away, and instead returned his gaze the armies below. _

_A roar pierced the night, and a black shape descended from the sky, the dark, purplish light being sucked in by his scales. He landed on a large temple, and watched his army past below, before turning his attention to the sky. The scene blurred as Jon was swept away to avoid being seen by his brother, but he knew that something had to happen soon, or mighty Sovngarde would fall under his might. The saviour was nearly here, but not quite. But he was content to stand guard, ready for that impending moment. _

**Jon Dovahkiin woke with a start.** The light was dimmer now; obviously some hours had passed. A guard was tapping his shoulder.

'What is it?' Jon snapped.

'Wings on the wind.' The Nord quickly ran off, and Jon raised himself with effort. His limbs didn't burn like before, but his body still ached, and his mouth was dry. What he needed was proper sleep, a day of recuperation, but he wasn't granted that by the gods; they were content to let him continue as he was.

Jon thought about the dream he had just had as he listened to the lok, _sky_. It was disturbing, but before he could think more on it, the sound of wings softly entered his hearing. He got up and strode to the centre of the porch, where Balgruuf was watching the skies.

'He approaches, Dragonborn. Be careful, and good luck.' He turned away, leaving Jon alone facing the sky.

He didn't have long to wait. A huge, red dragon swept out of the su, _air, _and glided round to face Jon. It hovered, and then, in a deep, booming voice called out: _'I am here, Dovahkiin!' _

Jon replied in draconic as well. _'Come down here, and test your claws against my sword.' _

'_Why should I? You who was bested by Alduin.' _

'_Are you afraid? If I could be bested by Alduin, surely you yourself can beat me.' _

The dragon was angry and sniffed in disdain. _'I fear nothing!'_ His wings beat the ground and he swept down, landing on the porch.

With the scrape of steel, Jon drew Kodaav, and stepped back as the dragon advanced. It leapt at him, and the Dragonborn rolled, slashing Kodaav backhanded as he came up. Much to Jon's surprise, it cut through the scales and drew hot dovah sos, _blood._ The dragon roared in pain, and Jon dodged again as it lunged at him. It's claws came down, swiping at him, but he grasped his sword two handed, and deflected them. Kodaav held strong, blue sparks springing off it with each kiss, even as each blow jarred his arms painfully.

Jon glanced up. The trap shook overhead. With a final slash, he threw himself back, landing heavily, and the dragon followed, roaring its triumph before the heavy wooden and metal shackles fell down on him, trapping his neck.

The dragon roared in pain and humiliation, before slumping, defeated. Jon picked himself up off of the ground and walked over to him, sheathing Kodaav.

'Zu'u bonaar. You went through a great deal of effort to put me in this… humiliating position,' he said in the common tongue. Up close, the dragon was massive, nearly as big as Paarthurnax or Alduin, and red, with dusky white wing colouring.

'What is your name?' Jon asked, keeping his face calm when in fact he was surprised to even have got this far.

'Odahviing; it is Snow Winged Hunter. But I sense you care little for me personally. Hind siiv, Alduin. Why else would you call for his chief servant?'

'Indeed. Where has the World Eater bovul, _fled_?'

'Fled! Yes, indeed. Alduin has proved himself unworthy of my loyalty. The Dovah _do not_ flee. Rinik vazah. One of the reasons I came here was to taste the thu'um that sent Alduin fleeing myself. We have often questioned Alduin's right to lead now, but among ourselves. Mu ni meyye. None are ready to openly defy him.'

Jon shuddered as he recalled Alduin's power. _How could they question it? _

'Where is Alduin?' He persisted.

'Unslaad Krosis! Innumerable pardons. I digress. He has travelled to Sovngarde to devour the souls of the sillesjoor. A privilege he guards most jealously…'

'How can I get there?' Jon asked, holding his breath in anticipation.

'Skuldafn, one of his ancient fanes, _temples, _in the eastern mountains. Now, zu'u lost ofan hin laan. You will free me now I have answered your questions, yes?'

'No. I cannot allow you to go free.'

'To a fellow dovah, perhaps?'

Jon looked down. 'I will think on it.'

He was about to turn away when Odahviing muttered some words that sealed his fate. 'Skuldafn can only be reached through flight, a power even you don't possess, Dovahkiin.'

Jon looked round, and then walked out of the great porch, his head swirling, ignoring his companions. _So, there is a way to Sovengarde! But I have to trust a dovah… Paarthurnax warned me never to do that... _

Jon decided that he needed to find Ysold, at least to tell her what was happening. He asked directions from a guard to the apartments and strode through the corridors until he found the door that had been pointed out to him. Jon could hear voices behind it, and without thinking he pushed it open, only to find himself face to face with Ysold.

Jon quickly got over his surprise and looked around. 'So, this is where you're staying? It's nice.' The apartments were large, and well furnished. He felt a surge of appreciation towards Balgruuf.

Ysold, however, looked wary. She still hadn't managed to come to terms properly with Jon's revelations, and she treated him like a stranger. 'What are you doing here?'

'I…' Any excuse withered in his mouth and instead Jon's expression became tight. 'I've captured a dragon… and I'm leaving for Sovngarde.'

At this Ysold looked incredulous… and hurt. Jon realised that she thought he was lying, but at the same time, he also discovered that he couldn't be bothered to explain. Not this time. On the journey here he had talked and explained, silently begging her to accept his destiny, but now he couldn't be bothered. Yet, he didn't want to not extend the opportunity.

'He's on the great porch. I'm leaving now. I just thought you would want to know. Can I see Alsfur?'

Ysold shook her head. 'I don't want him to see you.'

'Fine.' Jon left the room without a second glance and strode off back to the great porch, struggling to repress his feelings of hurt and betrayal. He knew that he should have gone back to Ysold and explained everything again, but he couldn't. Destiny was calling…

'**Is there any other way to get Skuldafn?' **Jon asked Odahviing when he returned. His conflicted feelings were making him angry.

'You may have the thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never see Skuldafn…' The red dragon smiled through his razor sharp teeth. 'Of course, I could fly you there, but not like this.'

'Then we are at an impasse,' Jon said curtly.

'Indeed. Orin brit ro. I cannot leave until you defeat Alduin, which you cannot do without my help.'

Jon gritted his teeth. He was about to let go of an enemy, but he had no choice. The dovah had said it well. 'I'll let you go if you promise to take me to Skuldafn, and leave Alduin's service.'

'Onikaan koraav gein miraad. It is wise to recognise when you only have one choice.' That further darkened Jon's mood, but he ignored the slight. 'And you can trust me. I will honour my pact, as any true dovah would. Free me, and I will fly you to Skuldafn,' Odahviing finished.

Jon turned away without answering, and walked back up to Balgruuf who was watching in a corner, his eyes steady.

'So, what's happening now? Are you ready to finally get going?'

'Yes, I am.' Jon didn't appreciate the reference to his detour. 'I'm freeing him.'

'What!'

'I have to… to reach Alduin.'

Balgruuf nodded, his jaw working. 'Do it then, Dragonborn.'

Jon nodded. If he did this, he was betraying the gods and falling from his duty. But he had to, if he wanted to fulfil his destiny. He strode to the chain that had been tied in place to hold to the weights that sprung the trap, and with one slash of Kodaav they broke and trailed up, whipping past Jon.

The Dovahkiin turned back and watched as the wood and metal rose up off Odahviing's neck. The dragon roared and lumbered to the edge of the porch, swinging his tail from side to side. Jon was afraid he might go back on his promise, but he didn't, instead turning he turned to face Dovahkiin.

'Saraan uth! I await your command.' Jon made his way over and the dovah looked down at him with sparkling white eyes. 'Are you ready to see the world as a dovah does?'

Jon nodded.

'You will envy us only more after flying the skies of Keizaal!'

With a sudden giddiness, Jon grabbed the horns on the back of Odahviing's head and hauled himself up onto the dragon, so that he rested on the front of the dovah's neck. He looked around with a strange excitement and noticed Ysold, standing by a corner of the porch, watching in amazement. Jon started to call out, but then Odahviing launched himself forward and the wind blew any words from his mouth. And then they were flying, all thoughts, desires and regrets lost to the ever shrinking city.

**Please review. Also, I should say in advance. The coming events may prove painful to many, but as you wouldn't quit something like Game of Thrones, please work through this. You may not care, but some people get… touchy. By all means grieve on your reviews, just don't accuse me of favouritism. Just needed to say that. You guys are great, but as proven with Cool Dude, you have to be on your guard. As for the scores on the coming battle, please place a bet! It will take place over several chapters…**


	54. The End of Loyalty

**Here the Ralof chapter is! I know its not quite as comical as his other ones are, but there wasn't much time for that now. Anyway, the battles started, finally. **

**The thanks: to HereLies, thanks for the review! I'm happy that you liked the Kodaav, and that you were pleased to see the Companions reference. They'll be another one later! To DraGG, thanks for the review! I kinda improvised/took bits from the game for the Odahviing conversation, so I'm glad you liked it. To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review! I love dropping your jaw. Hopefully the next chapter will dislocate it! (Er, I mean you no harm when I say that.) To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. Set up an account and I'll happily look at your ideas! That way we can exchange Private Messages. Also, thanks for the vote! To JakMar, thanks for the review. Seeing as you're Batman, it means that yes, I'll have to implement all your ideas. I can't say no to Batman can I? To krabbizzle, thanks for the review and the vote! Glad you like my story! Hope you keep enjoying it. To Lucie, thanks for the review. I loved reading it, and as for your ideas on Sovngarde, well it's the next chapter! To CupNoodleSoup, thanks for the story follower! To Aero, thanks for the review! Hopefully this chapter will get your adrenaline running again. If not, the next one should. To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review! This is the next chapter, so let's see if that pumped-ness was actually worth it! To Bloodmark Mentor, thanks for the story favourite, story follower and follower thing! And to SimonStormcloak, thanks for the two reviews and story favourite! Glad you liked Ralof's POV. Here's another now! **

**Imperials- 4, Stormcloaks- 4, Other- 2**

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

**Ralof, of Riverwood sat in the dark, musing again. **He couldn't say how long he had been confined here for, but the rapid sounds outside and the excited air of the Nord who brung him food suggested that they were nearing Solitude.

His days had all passed in the same way; food was given to him twice a day, and when they had moved him to a small room below deck, which Ralof suspected was actually a storage cupboard, they had taken his weapons and armour and dressed his broken leg. If there was one perk, it was that his confinement had allowed it to heal quickly. Ralof could walk well on it now, but he hadn't seen anyone since then, save his mysterious food-giver who appeared to be deaf. That, or he had a talent at ignoring people.

Naturally, Ralof had thrown his ideals out of the window after his leg had made a good recovery. He ahd tried to escape, but the door had proved unrammable and when he had attempted to overpower his captor, it had only earned him several new bruises.

As with all things in this accursed hole he couldn't be sure, but it also seemed that Ulfric had forgotten about him. Ralof supposed that the Jarl had better things to concern himself with than a traitor. The Captain had already accepted the hard truth that he wasn't going to be given a trial, but after weeks on end Fear had deserted him, and left the rebel empty of any emotion, be it terror, excitement or even anticipation for their arrival. He was bored.

Ralof had taken to playing with his food. He used any round pieces of fruit he was given as a ball to bounce against the walls. If there was one thing that this 'cell' had, it was walls.

Naturally the 'balls' only lasted a few throws, but even so when the guard had caught him throwing it, all types of fruit had been removed from his food, leaving him with nothing to do. _Fruit throwing had been rubbish anyway. I was never much good with ball._

It was a cavalier attitude he had, Ralof realised, but there was really nothing else to do. All feeling had left him as the weeks had gone by, so he couldn't worry about his fate, he could only laugh about it, though even that was a struggle now. But if there was one thing that Ralof had discovered, it was that the cause he fought for was no longer the one had sworn an oath to.

With this revelation came both a certain amount of relief, but also uncertainty. While he was now free to do as he wished without moral consequence, the rebel was also faced with the difficult prospect of deciding what he could do. Should he return home? Did he want to fight for the Empire? Which cause was right? Now that he had finally broken out of the spell Ulfric had cast on him, Ralof realised that he could look at both factions and make a informed decision, not bound by who he knew, what was expected of him, or any of the things which might make him favour a cause, but by true judgement.

The Empire was weak, but no more so than a divided Skyrim. Despite what Ulfric thought, the country would take years to actually regain its stability. And then what? The Jarl had no heirs, and his military power would have been greatly degraded through the war, making any fight against the Thalmor next to impossible. In addition, the Jarl had also managed to alienate several other races, such as the dark elves, who Ralof was none to fond of either; the Imperials and the Bretons, after his role in the Markarth Incident. And on top of that, Ulfric was too proud. The Stormcloak's rarely accepted help, and even then only when it was absolutely necessary. _Skyrim will have few allies when the Thalmor finally march onto our soil._

But at least Ulfric represented a vision; a free Skyrim, unchained and able to practice its beliefs as it saw fit. The end of Talos had been a betrayal, and one the Empire could never recover from. Their weakness had created the Thalmor as it is known now, so in a way, the Empire was responsible for all the hurts they had faced in this war, and the Great War. Ralof agreed that they needed strong leadership, but the further they came, the more he was convinced that Jarl Stormcloak wasn't it.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, exhausted by his revelations. Ralof could hear voices outside and mechanical whirls. He realised with a sudden burst of excitement that they must finally be at Solitude. Soon, blood would be spilt, but for the first time, Ralof couldn't decide if it was for a good cause or not.

The rebel was yanked from his musing by footsteps and the turn of a key. Light fell onto his face and Ralof used his hand to protect his eyes, squinting through it to see a familiar figure.

'There you are,' said Darien. He moved forward and pulled out a dagger, which he used to saw through Ralof's bonds. He was dressed lightly, with only the dagger by his side.

'What's going on? Where are we?'

Darien's face was unusually tense. 'Where else? Solitude. The battle's started, and I need to get you out of here.'

Ralof recovered from his shock and grabbed the other Nord's arm. 'Why? Why save me?'

Darien looked at him, carefully. 'Because I think you're right.' He hauled the other rebel to his feet, but Ralof lurched and stumbled. 'You'll get used to walking again.'

'I'm not sure. I must have been in there for months.'

'About one, yeah,' agreed Darien. 'Come on. The city's well defended. Our ships are taking a battering, and the Imperial navy is coming to trap us from behind. This is our only chance to get clear.'

'Wait, wait,' Ralof said, grabbing the Seastride man's arm. 'We're deserting.' His very instincts rebelled against the thought, but equally hadn't he wanted to leave anyway? _Why not now?_

Darien turned to look hard at Riverwood. 'We're as good as dead anyway. Me in battle, probably by an arrow, you by the headsman's axe. Or the deep blue,' he added as an after thought.

The comment about the sea worried the former Captain. 'You have a boat to escape,' Ralof asked uncertainly.

'No, we'll have to swim.'

Ralof started shaking. The thought of the water sent a cold fear through him, leaving him clammy and feverish.

'What?' Darien asked. 'It's the water or the fire.'

'Fire?'

'Tullius loaded barrels onto the catapults. Half the navy's gone, either blown up or deserted. Ulfric's reached land, but last I heard, he was dead; one of the men claims an arrow went through his throat.'

Ralof was shocked. 'He can't be dead,' he mumbled in disbelief.

'Why not? He's a man, and that's an arrow.'

'What of the cause?'

'What cause? You said as much yourself, not me. Look, we need to go, _now_.'

'Right.' Ralof took the steps slowly and emerged up on the deck of The Storm. The site that greeted him was nightmarish, torn from one of his bad dreams.

Fire burned on the water, which was choked by the wood of ships. Fights clashed on various decks, as men struggle to survive. Blood was turning the choked water red, and as he looked around he saw that Darien had told it true; half the fleet was gone. Along the shore were piles of bodies, but Stormcloak men were still throwing up lines and ladders to try and scale the walls. It was chaos.

'Let's go.' Darien ran to the edge of the ship, ignoring the fighting that was taking place as another longship tried to ram The Storm. 'The west coastline. We'll make for there, then Dragonsbridge, aye?'

Ralof nodded his consent as he stared down at the water. He felt sick, and his head was spinning.

Darien was about to dive, but Ralof grabbed him. 'I can't,' he told the other rebel.

'Why not? It's death, or this. Take one.'

'I can't go into the water.'

'You can, and you will.' Without warning, the Seastride man shoved Ralof off the deck, and into the sea.

The blue darkness closed around him, and he struggled desperately. Dead, mutilated faces entered his vision and left. Ralof screamed, struggling and writhing, pushing at the water, even as it sapped his strength. Darkness crossed across his vision but he didn't care anymore. It would save him, and lift him up, out of the water. And it did. With a hard tug he was up above the surface, spluttering and taking deep gulps of smoky air.

Ralof coughed, treading water and shaking. Darien was next to him, his hair plastered to his scalp.

'Let's go.' He pulled the other rebel through the water, the sounds of battle slamming against their ears. The heat of the fires that laced the water burned their faces and they struggled through the blood, making for the west shoreline. Darien was a strong swimmer, which was fortunate as Ralof wasn't. His strong strokes cut through the bloody water as he dragged the former Captain behind him, glancing up fearfully as arrows and stones hit the water, making it writhe and shift.

Ralof looked up at the walls of the city. Ropes and ladders had reached the top. The combined navy of Ulfric's ships, and the Jarl of Dawnstar's, were beginning to overcome Elisif's, and they were turing their attention to the walls. Already Ralof could see the impact they were having; Solitude's high defences were heavily scarred.

He looked back to see the shore only a short distance away. Relief burst through his tired limbs and Ralof increased his own stroke. Noticing this, Darien let go of him and started to power through the water. But suddenly, he stopped and looked up. Ralof followed his gaze and saw arrows whizzing down on them. Fear overtook any emotion and without thinking he plunged into the water as the missiles hit the surface. Darien wasn't so lucky.

The arrow caught him in his throat. He started choking and sank into the water, past the horrified Ralof. The rebel tried to grab the body, but it was sinking quickly and he dare not go any deeper. The water's depths still scared the hum, so instead he turned and broke through the water's surface. Without looking back or giving in to the dark feelings of loss that had suddenly sunk into his mind, Ralof made for the shore, his mind driven by one desire. Survive. Behind him was nothing but pain, fear and defeat. In front of him was a new future. Ralof swam faster.

**Please review! You'll like what happens next chapter, I promise you. On that promise, please review! **


	55. The Legacies of Many

**Well, I worked pretty hard on this chapter. I've been waiting a long time to actually air this, so er… don't rip it apart basically. It's about goddamn time, but now everything is coming to a full circle. Once this is done, things will never be the same…**

**The thanks: To JakMar, thanks for the review! As for your protests in regard to Ulfric, wait until next chapter I guess. You'll see what happens. To General 77, I'm glad you like the characters and stories! The Ralof chapter was a little iffy, and hopefully this one is much better. Also, I love reviews. They're kind of my drug so if you want to review each time, go ahead! To BrunetteAuthorette99, thanks for the review! I like your thoughts and the arrow to the knee thing! Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Gald you liked Ralof's anger reference and also this one is longer! To HereLies, thanks for the review. I am immensely pleased you picked up on the arrow thing in regard to Darien and Ulfric. I like putting in that stuff. I have one I put in ages ago, that will come true soon. As for Ralof and Jon, well keep reading… To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review. I'm happy you liked Ralof leaving, as I think it is a pretty original idea. Also, glad someone mourned Darien for Ralof. He didn't have time to. To DraGG, thanks for the review. There was your Ralof chapter! I'm glad you like his view of prison. As for the POV, er… I'm changing it. Sorry, but it always changes if I can make it. Only once could it not, in chapter 12 and 13 I think. To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review. If it's ever going to happen, your jaw will drop off in the very last chapter because that is EPIC. But not yet here… To hero of all, thanks for the review and story favourite. I'll wait for your reply. And lastly, thank you Do'Ravier for the follower thing! Cheers guys! **

**Imperials- 4, Stormcloaks- 4, Other- 3 (I think the score stands as such now.)**

**Jon Dovahkiin **

**Light rushed up on him**, and then qethsegol, _stone_. His body was filled with a pleasant warmth before the landing punched it out of him again. Jon Dovahkiin groaned, his recent wounds burning, and his limbs aching again. He coughed out dirt from his mouth and tasted blood where he had bit his tongue, before dragging himself up slowly, and catching his breath at the site laid out before him.  
Sovngarde: It looked just as it had in his dream, with the tumbling hills, clear streams and smooth boulders. Jon stood and gazed over it, his eyes drinking in the sounds and smells. They reminded him of Ysold, and her own hair, tumbling down her shoulders...  
But deep inside himself, he knew this wasn't what Sovngarde should be. Vokul praan het. _Evil rests here._ Jon couldn't imagine a better place, yet it didn't feel right. The air crackled threateningly and shadows hung over the picturesque valley that made up the Nordic paradise. Everything had an air of deceit, and Jon didn't feel safe here.  
His rahgot, _anger,_ rose as he realised that Alduin had managed to corrupt even Sovngarde, the purest of things. It wasn't right, and that sent new strength through Jon's veins. He rose properly, ignoring the scratches and bruises he had acquired in Skuldafn, his mind set on only one thing: killing the World Eater.  
Alduin's influence was everywhere. Though still beautiful, the sky was dark, shrouding the land in a blue glow. The very heavens themselves writhed with glowing purple anger, and a mist covered the pathways of the valley. But standing still and silent on top of the largest hill, was the Hall of Valour. Jon gazed in wonder at it, before turning his attention to his immediate surroundings.  
He stood on a stone porch with a set of steps that connected with a paved path that headed further down into the underworld. Two massive statues flanked the entrance.  
Jon Dovahkiin took a deep su'um, _breath_, and climbed down the steps into the valley. The mist engulfed him, and the Dovahkiin tried to use his thu'um to disperse it, but Alduin's power was too strong. It merely shifted, before returning to choke the air again. He ignored trying to remove the fog, and instead focused on navigating it, treading carefully along the path before seeing a dark shape slumped on the road. As Jon looked closer, he was surprised to recognise the figure of a man. He ran up to him, and shook his arm.  
'Are you alright? Do you know the way to the Hall of Valour?'  
The man looked up and Jon recoiled, drawing Kodaav. Half the Nord's face was sheared off.  
'Ulfric led us up the cliffs. A rock fell on me, and I came here,' he said in a voice choked on blood.  
'What do you mean?'  
'Ulfric is attacking Solitude. I am just one of many. When we reached top, I was going to burn the city.' The Stormcloak started laughing manically and Jon stepped back, shocked by his madness and strode past him, looking back warily.  
The mist was oppressive, but Jon wasn't scared. He wasn't meant to dir, _die,_ yet. Not before seeing Alduin with an army of mutilated...  
_Wait, the army is the lost souls of Sovngarde, like that man back there. Alduin's going to ignite a civil war in Sovngarde!_ _The longer I wait, the more souls he gathers…_ Jon started running, fuelled on by his revelation, following the path and using the faint glow of Kodaav to guide him through the valley. The mist dissolved in front of him as he climbed a hill and then he stumbled to a halt, his breath ragged and laced with fear.  
Below him was a massive army of dead, mutilated bodies. Dressed mostly in damaged armour with an array of hideous wounds, they marched past, relentless and lost.  
Jon watched in vol, _horror_, before ducking down to avoid their red gaze. He tried to control his breathing but before he could, footsteps sounded behind him. A dead Stormcloak soldier stood over him, it's breath rattling. It reached out a hand for him and Jon slashed wildly. Dust and blood exploded from the wound, spilling over the Dovahkiin and he coughed before leaping up, slamming into the lost soul in the process. It fell and Jon started running, pumping his tired limbs to generate speed. The sound of pursuit sounded behind him and Jon turned to see seven dead soldiers, Imperial and Stormcloak, chasing him, rusted steel in their hands.  
The lost dead filled his mind with cold fear and uncertainty. Their red eyes bore Alduin's mark, and in them Jon could see only his own destruction.  
He jumped off the path and down a steep hill, hiding behind the crumbled pillars of a nearby temple, only one in many that littered Sovngarde. Dovahkiin watched as they moved towards him, scouring the hill face for any sign of their quarry. Jon drew Kodaav close, but the movement made the blade flash in the dark light. The lost soul's eyes flickered around and they started to descend the hill, quickly making for the temple. Jon knew he couldn't take seven men at once, even dead ones, but he had to try. He realised with a start that he had seen the army, and he remembered the flash of steel; a tuz, _blade,_ falling into his vision. The dream had come true, this was the end.

With this sense of hopelessness came reckless courage. It warmed his limbs and Jon crouched, bouncing, prepared to fight to the end. As the first warrior came up to his pillar, and past, looking round, he swung Kodaav into it's legs. They came away with a shower of dust and Jon stabbed his point through it's neck as it fell. Before he could recover another soul swung its blade at him. Jon dodged to the side and swung his sword one handed down into the soul's shoulder, then knocked another warrior's cut upwards as he pulled his blade out of his last enemy, stabbing the warrior through the chest. Despite their mutilated appearance, the lost souls were strong and still remembered how to fight. Jon gritted his teeth and threw his considerable weight behind each strike, but his weariness was mounting up again. Sweat pricked his brow and before he knew it, Jon was retreating back, parrying their blows.

He saw Ysold's face in his mind, closing the door in Whiterun, and rahgol, _rage_, boiled up inside him. Anger fuelled by regret and indecision. Another axe blow came down, but Jon caught it in Kodaav's hilt and pushed upwards, exposing his opponents chest and then slamming his sword through the broken mail of the soul's armour.

But in that time, the other warriors descended. One blade caught his shoulder and he fell. The skyforge steel took the blow easily, but then the souls circled him, raising their weapons in preparation to hack Jon apart. He bowed his head, waiting for evitable…

A roar pierced the night. Jon thought it was Alduin, here to witness his defeat, but then he noticed that it was lower and deeper… Paarthurnax's roar…

The white dragon's landing shook the ground when he landed, tearing up the grass. His tail whipped out, ripping apart the warriors in one blow as it whished round Jon. He looked up in gratitude and surprise to see the dovah standing over him, young and sparkling, his wings whole and smooth, his scales dazzling.

'Lok thu'um, Dovahkiin. It is good to see you.'

'Paarthurnax?' Jon asked in disbelief. 'You're dead.'

'Ah, but we are in Sovngarde, no? Su'um ahrk morah.'

'I didn't realise dovah went to Sovngarde,' Jon admitted weakly, picking up his sword as he recovered from his brush with death.

'We are a Nordic… image. Thus, we fight well and so we go to our paradise to become unslaad, _immortal._ Father Akatosh, in his wisdom, sent me here and now zu'u lost daal, _I have returned, _in your hour of need. I had believed my part done, but with my brother's invasion it appears that I have a purpose still. It would appear that it has been realised through you.'

Jon nodded, and let out a small smile. 'It's good to see you again, Paarthurnax.'

'And you, Dovahkiin. I have been awaiting your arrival most eagerly. I am pleased to see that the man, and not the boy, survived my physical death.'

Jon rubbed his jaw, feeling his heavy stubble. 'Indeed. It wasn't easy.'

'It never is. Now, are you ready to complete your destiny?'

'Take me to Alduin and I'll do what I have to.'

'Krosis. You cannot reach him now, not with his lahvu, _army_, all around.'

Jon kicked one of the dead souls bodies that lay at his feet in his frustration. 'Gruth ahrk dukaan! His army of betrayers.'

'No, Dovahkiin! Enslaved unjustly, and in the worst of states. They are all heroes who have not yet reached the Hall of Valour. Is it their fault that a god enslaved them?'

'No,' Jon said, tightly, acknowledging his mistake.

'Do not disrespect them, Dovahkiin. Drem yol nok. Each and every one earned their place here. Now, as I was saying you cannot reach my zeymah, _brother_, alone. I have been asked to carry you to the Great Hall by King Shor, Lord of Sovngarde. This, I plan to do.'

'You're going to take me to the Hall to find help?' Jon asked. 'Paarthurnax, I can do this alone.'

'The deed you will, but even you cannot defeat an army. Now come, we must go quickly before Alduin realises you are here.'

Jon didn't want to accept anymore help, but he couldn't deny the dovah. He sheathed Kodaav and climbed onto Paarthurnax as he had with Odahviing. As soon as he ready, the wuth dovah, _old dragon,_ launched himself off of the ground, ripping up the ground, and rose quickly into the air.

From this position Jon could see over the whole land, even when it was wreathed in fog, and through broken patches of the mist he could see Alduin's vast army, crawling through the valley, a massive line of death. A thought struck the Dragonborn.

'It was you I saw in my dream when I was in Whiterun.'

'Hin ko Sotru? Yes, I did contact you, trying to let you to see what was happening in an attempt to hasten your arrival.'

'It worked,' Jon said dryly as he surveyed the landscape. They continued the rest of the flight in silence.

**The Hall of Valour rose before them**, on a hill cut off from the world, dominating the land and shining even in the dark. It was a massive mead hall, built of glossy brown wood, smooth as a varnished table. Jon looked down to see a massive whalebone bridge connecting the Hall to the rest of the land and he caught his breath in awe. It was only then that he noticed Paarthurnax landing.

'What are you doing?'

'You, Dovahkiin, must first earn the right to cross the bridge, granted only by Lord Tsun.'

Jon knew that he couldn't argue with the dovah, and so instead nodded his consent and jumped off the dragon as he touched the ground, landing heavily, his limbs weary. Jon stumbled up the last part of the path, not covered in fog, to be greeted by a huge bron, _Nord,_ with a massive axe on his back.

'Greetings, stranger. You are not dead,' he said frankly.

'No, I'm not,' Jon agreed. 'Can I pass?'

'By what right?'

Jon was thrown off guard; didn't know what to say. _By what right do I have to cross?_ _I haven't defeated Alduin, fought in a battle… I haven't even told my wife I'm sorry for everything I've done. I've taken her home, and even then I hadn't even returned as the same man._ Tears threatened to emerge but Jon pushed them back angrily, his throat tight was emotion. _What do I have, but a chance at birth? A freak accident that could have happened to anyone, but the Gods chose me..._

'I have no right, but birth,' Jon said, his voice cracked with sudden emotion. 'I am the Dragonborn and I've come to liberate Sovngarde and kill my enemy. Is that not enough?'

Tsun looked satisfied by his display of true purpose and feeling. 'It is, Dovahkiin. Long have I awaited you, and now here you are.' He turned to Paarthurnax. 'Mighty old one. I welcome your wisdom back.'

'As I welcome your courage, Lord Tsun.'

The huge God turned back to Jon. 'In there are the legacies of many, Dovahkiin. Including yours. I warn you now, you will never be the same.'

'I never was,' he replied simply, before stepping past Tsun and climbing over the bridge, careful to keep his footing on the slippery qeth, _bone_. Paarthurnax soared over and landed by the huge doors, wide enough to accommodate him, and waited for Jon.

The Dragonborn made his way over the bridge and strode up next to the dragon, eying the door warily. 'What did he mean by the legacies of many?'

'What do you think?' Paarthurnax said, looking at Jon strangely. With that he pushed open the door with his head and it swung back easily, despite its immense size. They entered, before it closed on their backs and Jon was met by an amazing site.

The Hall was massive, and faad, _warm_. A huge feast table dominated the centre but all kinds of activities were available on two raised sections either side of the main hall. Archery, sword arenas, even areas to advance magical interests existed and also on these side sections were hundreds of doors leading to rooms. A golden light, friendly, but also fiery, covered everything and at the head of the feast table was a large, ornate silver throne. Jon turned his attention away from this site and descended the steps to the main floor. Paarthurnax followed him, nudging Dovahkiin in a specific direction so that he found himself in front of three warriors.

Jon was instantly struck by their likeness, and he realised that he had seen them before, in Paarthurnax's memory. With his own miin, _eyes_, though, he could see finer details. The younger man and women both shared the same yellowy blond hair as Ulfric Stormcloak, with the man taking his same eyes and jaw, while the women took his cheekbones. Jon realised that they must be kin. The older man was tall and unbent with startling green eyes, and grey hair.

As he approached them, the younger man turned and let out a bellowing cry. 'Here he is, the youngest among us. He looks good, a true Stormcloak.' He made his way over to Jon and embraced him in a bear hug, crushing the life from the Dragonborn's bones. 'Your birth may be as black as your hair, but I consider you my true born kin.'

Jon was dazed by the hug and what the man was saying but before he could recover, the woman strode forward. 'Yes, Jon Stormcloak. It is good to see you. Long have we waited and watched.'

'Stormcloak?' Jon asked, alarmed. 'What are you-'

Before he could finish a quiet voice broke the air. 'Jon.'

He turned to come face to face with a woman in her late twenties, with black hair and blue eyes. It was his mother, as she had looked when he was about fourteen, when he had last seen her. 'Mother?' Emotion rushed through him and he embraced her, hugging her tightly.

'You are bigger than you were when you left me,' Alea told him, mildly affronted that he had grown without her.

Jon was smiling, before he grasped what had happened. 'You, wait, this is Sovngarde. What are you doing here?'

His mother looked at him sadly. 'I died, as we all do eventually.'

'How?' He asked, shocked and angry. 'Who?'

'I died protecting your father.'

Jon didn't think he could be more shocked, but the last word threw him over. 'My father?' He breathed, not quite believing.

'In Falkreath. I think it's time I told you everything. Believe me when I say I had the very best reasons to do what I did. When you were born I wasn't sure if he would love you, or accept you, and I didn't want you to be held back by something that could have happened, but never did. But now I can't hide it any longer.'

'Jon, my son, you are the heir to Windhelm. Your father is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.'

**And now I might point out the comment Delphine hater made back in chapter 48. 'Jon will make a better Stormcloak', Obviously in regard to the factions of Imperial and Stormcloak, but its so ironic I had to mention it now. (I mean no offense, Delphine hater. I love the comment. It's so brilliant because of what has now happened and what will happen.) **

**As General 77 said, I'm addicted to reviews so please post one, or I'm be in withdrawal. Thanks guys! Damn, I've been waiting to reveal this for AGES! You guys probably already knew, but still- IT'S OFFICIAL! **


	56. Imperial Vs Stormcloak

**The battle of Solitude. I originally planned for it to be longer, but then I decided I didn't need to. So, here it is! **

**The thanks. To hero of all, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm happy you liked the ending! As for Dragonrend, it will feature soon. It hasn't been forgotten! To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review! Yes! I'm glad you liked Paarthy's return. It was pretty much the only reason he was there, in all honesty. To BrunetteAuthorette99, thank you for the review! I'm glad you liked the reunion scene with Alea, and *cheers for your guessing!* To HereLies, thanks for the review! Thanks for the awesome massive review! I'm glad you talked about the guest appearances (and I'm most happy you liked Alea the best) and I really happy you talked about Jon's blood-mental struggle. Brilliant! To JakMar, thanks for the review! You're right, Jon doesn't have to worry about finding a home now, and also, remember, Jon hasn't chosen a side yet, but he will soon. To RaptorZeroOne, you're jaw has to fall off soon! Cheers for the review! To DraGG, thanks for the review. I'm happy you liked Sovngarde, and were right about Jon's dad. To There She Goes, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked Jon's Stormcloak-ness! And the return of Alea! To General 77, thanks for the review! Got a few things to answer. First: about undead thing- you'll see. Second- I meant 'start a civil war in Sovngarde'. I've added that word in there now, my apologies for the confusion. And as to Jon against seven guys, I'm trying to keep the fights vaguely realistic (with Hollywood qualities as you'll see soon, but still). Personally, I think it would be hard to fight two guys at once, let alone seven, so Jon, for all his skill, cannot beat loads of guys at once, only three when he has the element of surprise. As for the souls, as Paarthy said they are enslaved Sovngarde heroes, not Draugr, so yeah, they are tough. Hope that answers your stuff! And thanks for not making me go into withdrawal! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. What was the suspense? Was it that both armies get devastated and truce? Sorry for seeming dickish, but if so, then this chapter will kinda make that irrelevant. But this should prove to be suspenseful. In any case, thanks to everyone for the great reviews! **

**Okay, here… we… go… (I was going to say something, but I forgot it.) **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak**

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak gazed up** at the high walls of Solitude. They had taken multiple hits by his ships over the past hours, but they still held strong, much to Ulfric's frustration. He looked round at the water, where the corpses of ships rested, burning lightly. His own navy was mostly gone, but those that had remained had managed to defeat the Empire's fleet and begin barraging the walls, but to little effect.  
Night was coming in and it was getting dark. To Ulfric this was good; it would allow his men to climb the walls under the cover of darkness, while limiting the Imperials ability to respond. He took solace in this thought, because he knew that very soon they would have to attack again and when that time came, only the night would shield them from the Imperial arrows. He shuddered at the prospect of so much death and continued walking.

The Jarl was sheltered by a rocky outcrop on which Solitude stood. Here, he had made his camp, protected from the Imperial bombardment. On top of this outcrop was a short line of land, and then the defences of the city. They would set up the ladders there and try to scale the walls. But Ulfric realised that this would be a death sentence, so he had commissioned that a ram be built, mainly to distract the Imperials, as Solitude's gate was too thick and well protected to make it a realistic option of attack. However, it would worry Tullius, and that was all he needed to ensure that they might have a chance of scaling the walls. That and the night were the only preparations he had.  
Followed by Galmar of Clan Stone-Fist, his Housecarl, Ulfric Stormcloak picked his way through the bodies of his men. It was an unpleasant walk, and one that left him bitter and regretful for the families it left fatherless, but such was the price they paid for freedom. _And revenge_, Ulfric thought guiltily.  
He hadn't told anyone the true reason for why he had been so determined to reach Tullius. Not even Galmar knew. After all, it wasn't revenge the Stormcloaks were fighting for, it was liberty, but after the events of Falkreath, Ulfric found it hard to think about anything else. He had to avenge Alea, and until that happened he was trapped. He could continue, and ignore it, but not without the feelings of guilt and betrayal eventually slipping past his defences and plaguing his mind. Once Tullius was dead though, he could rest. And the Imperial dog was just behind these walls...

**Ulfric Stormcloak** **made his way** up to the front of the men, climbing onto a rocky outcrop so they could all see him. They turned to face him, all eager Nords, ready but also scared by the prospect of battle. He scanned their faces, remembering their names, their lives. Each one was human, and had pledged themselves to his cause. But this attack, was it really for the cause? How many of these 'Stormcloaks' were equal to Alea's life? _None_, Ulfric thought bitterly. _Not one of these men are worth her laughter, or way she screamed as we made love. None here, but up there… _  
He needed to give a speech. His men were about to face impossible odds, and it was his duty to inspire them at least. It was the last thing he could do for all of them, to ensure victory. There was no more planning, and once he got up there he was just another soldier, one of many. Ulfric looked down, struggling for the words he could use to inspire the men gathered below that cliff face. They numbered in thousands, either on the ships, or here in front of him, ready to climb the ladders and ropes to Sovngarde. His regret overwhelmed everything, so Ulfric decided to use it.  
'What is man?' He began. 'It depends; there are many different kinds of men. They burn, they love, they kill,' Ulfric said, his voice soft and strained; 'they think, they imagine, they build, they dream. Every one of you dreams. I don't know your dreams, nor could I understand their unique significance. I can't claim to relate to your ambitions, or count myself as one of you in the ranks, but I _can_ claim to have related my _own_ dreams onto you. Ideas so great and… _powerful…_ that you are ready to take up steel and defend them! Ready to brave Sovngarde for them!

'I am humbled in front of you. Bravery is far more important attribute than leadership, as is hope, qualities that every one of you possess. The bravery to resist a corrupt Empire, and the hope to believe that things will get better! Keep that hope, my friends, and pray to Talos that this be the end!'

The roar was enormous, and Ulfric turned back to the cliff face where the ropes hung. It was a simple climb up to the land above the outcrop, and then they would scale the walls under the cover of the darkness. The Jarl licked his lips, dry after his speech. Did he believe any of the things he had just said? Not enough of them.

Around him the men started racing forward, clambering up the ropes, their faces determined. Ulfric looked up, anticipation building in his heart. _This was it. Finally it is time_. A rumble shook the sky, and it started raining. A storm was coming…

**Imperial General Tullius **

**Imperial General Tullius walked the **wall**, **encouraging the men, and watching over the quiet. Since Ulfric had arrived in early morning, he had mounted two attacks. One had been massive, while the ships were still fighting. Tullius still remembered the blood, the steel, the cries of the wounded. The wall had become slippery and red, but they had come off better, though it took time to see it. The General had been disconcerted by the loss of their navy. Any stronger emotion would have to be reserved for later though, as it was the calm commander who men held faith in.

The next attack had been smaller, stationed near the gate. They had thrown their weight behind a battling ram, but it seemed Ulfric didn't have the heart to commit to it, and so the Stormcloaks had pulled out of it quickly, with minimal losses. Tullius didn't expect an attack tonight, but this was Stormcloak. He was nothing if not impatient, and naive.

A storm had begun a few minutes ago, and already it was lashing down. Visibility was awful, but the General had forced the men out into it to watch the walls. They wouldn't warm to the task, but it might just help them stay alive and in this light, Tullius had no mercy. If they wanted to survive they would have to make some hard sacrifices.

His military cloak was doing little to keep out the rain, so Tullius decided to head inside one of the square watchtowers that stood along the wall at regular intervals. As he made his way over to it, he noticed the damage that had been made to Solitude's defences by Ulfric's fleet. The parapet was broken in some places, leaving a gap where men could easily slip and fall to their deaths, and when Tullius passed them he kept his distance, unwilling to fall victim to the storm.

The General entered the guardhouse. Legate Rikke sat at the small table drinking mead, her worn face lit by the warm, orange light. She sighed, and passed a mug along to her General, but he shook his head. He wanted his wits about him for the coming battle.

'Do you think we're going to survive, sir?' Rikke asked. Her speech was slightly slurred, Tullius noticed. He could have said something, but he didn't want to. Any comfort in these dark times were welcome, and it wouldn't do to begrudge it from his soldiers.

The General looked at her, his faces strained and tired. 'I don't know.'

She nodded and sunk back down in her silence.

Tullius rested back his head and closed his eyes. Thoughts of a warm day in Anvil floated across his mind before he heard a scuffle outside. His eyes snapped open, all dreams gone in an instant, and he looked round to see a soldier by the door, drenched.

'Report,' Tullius told him, but he man said nothing, advancing slowly into the room. The scrape of steel rushed from his blade, and Tullius realised with alarm that he had made a mistake. _He isn't one of my men!_ The attacker swung his blade at the General. Without a second thought Tullius threw his chair back as the sword bit into the table, where his head had hung over in his despair a second ago, splitting the cheap wood. Tullius whipped out his dagger and slammed it into the man's sword hand before he even knew his blade was lodged in the wood, severing his attacker's fingers and then relished in his victory as he heard the screams of agony pierce the tower.

By this time Rikke was already up and screaming for men to join her on the wall where Stormcloak soldiers were suddenly swarming over. Tullius exchanged his dagger for his sword, grabbed a shield from the corner, and ran out into the rain, fear mounting up as he tried to comprehend what had happened in the last minute. Already the legionnaires were struggling with the Stormcloaks for control, and steel flashed as lightning cracked the air and Tullius looked on in horror, his mind coming to the dreadful conclusion: Ulfric's men had climbed the wall. They were invading Solitude, and it was his fault for not staying on watch, the only man who was actually doing his duty.

The guilt was brushed from his mind as Rikke ran past him, leading the men who had been in the watchtower. They slammed into the enemy and before long, more bodies littered the parapet.

Tullius looked round in time to see a Nord who had just climbed the wall, axe flashing with the lightning. He was a frightening spectacle, with his mail and fur, but Tullius met him, dodging the first strike, and then blocking the second on his shield. He thrust his blade into the man's chest, but the Stormcloak twisted and Tullius ducked the riposte, slamming his shield into the Nord's chest, and the finishing him on the ground.

The General ripped his blade out in a shower of flesh and metal links, and surveyed the wall again. They were winning; his men were pushing the Stormcloaks back! The joy Tullius experienced at this site was driven out of him as he noticed the Nord fighting on the far side of the wall: Lord Ulfric Stormcloak.

The Nordic Lord was tearing through men, his blade flashing and leaping with delight for each kill. As he did so his own men fell behind him, roaring their support. He was unstoppable and Tullius tried to get closer, but the fighting threw him back, even as he saw Rikke move up to face Ulfric, leading the Imperial men.

They circled each other briefly, Rikke moving to put Ulfric's back to an unguarded section of the wall, watched by their men, now arrayed in two opposite sides on the either side of the parapet. But with despair and fear, Tullius noticed her step. It was slow, and her movements were sluggish, marred by mead. Even so, the Legate attacked first, trying to drive Stormcloak off the damaged section fo the wall, but Ulfric imposed his own blade, knocking Rikke's aside and then slashing at her head. She ducked, and raised her sword but Stormcloak feinted, before whipping his blade around. She dodged barely, swinging her blade in a last attempt to hit Ulfric, but he tripped her uneasy step, grabbing the back of her sword belt as she fell to the edge of the wall, exactly as she had intended for Stormcloak to do, and hung over it, supported only by the Skyrim Lord's hold on her belt.

Tullius tried to push himself closer as Ulfric mocked her, his voice harsh.

'When I served in the Legions, I was flogged for drunkenness. In the present circumstances, while on duty, I believe the punishment was death.' He looked at Tullius, his hair plastered to his face, but his was grin bloody. 'Isn't that right, General?' He let Rikke go, and she fell off the edge, her scream of pure terror echoing through Tullius' mind.

_Cato, and now Rikke?_ Tullius stumbled back in disbelief, and the Stormcloaks thrust through his men.

'Forward!' He ran forward, but Ulfric turned, shouting out strange words. Tullius had seen this before; he was about to shout. He crouched, ducking behind his shield as the shout raced overhead. The snapping of necks ringed through the storm as his shield was smashed to pieces, numbing his arm briefly, and the General felt his own neck jar against the back of his armour, but he was low enough for it to be a minor discomfort. The other men were not so lucky. Most of the men on the wall were killed, but a few had survived. Not enough to compete with the Stormcloaks though. It was lost, they were all dead. There was only one thing he could do.

'Fall back to Castle Dour!'

The legionnaires heard the order and fell back in a rush, scrambling free and sprinting for the castle. Tullius shouted his order again and ran with them, all discipline forgotten. He glanced behind him, and saw Ulfric following him like a dog, his teeth bared, and his blade running red with blood. The General realised that if he could lead away Stormcloak, and kill him, then they might win. It was a long shot, and stupid besides, but Tullius was determined to die fighting, or not at all.

He swerved, sprinting for a house. The General smashed through the door, and threw himself against the wall, sheathing his sword, waiting for Ulfric. It didn't take long. Tullius hear the sound of heavy breathing, and bit back his fear, as Stormcloak made his way through the porch, his blade raised to his side, looking around warily.

The Lord glanced his way and Tullius leapt, thrusting his dagger at Ulfric's throat, his fear being transmitted into the will to survive. Stormcloak dropped his sword, and grabbed Tullius' arms, stopping the dagger just before his throat. They struggled over the weapon, Ulfric's face contorted wit fury and passion. The General gritted his teeth and redouble his efforts, but couldn't withstand Ulfric's strength.

The Nord threw him against the wall and took control of the dagger, aiming it at his throat. Tullius ducked and ripped his sword from its sheath, as the dagger broke on impact with the wall. The slash tore open Stormcloak's chainmail, and left the edge red with Nordic blood, while the Skyrim Lord recoiled, bellowing in pain and surprise.

Tullius seized the opportunity and leapt at Ulfric, attempting to stab his opponent's throat, but the Nord twisted and threw the General over, reaching for his own fallen sword. The Imperial tried to stop him by directing blows at his legs from the ground, but Ulfric had his blade and intercepted them, locking both weapons before he punched Tullius hard, the spike of pain making the General's head dizzy, and then picked him up. The Imperial tried to wrestle out of the hold, but Ulfric launched a headbutt at his face, breaking his nose in a dash of red pain, throwing him down and stamping on him. Tullius rolled, and tried to swing his blade at Ulfric's leg, but the Lord kicked the weapon from his grip and stabbed down again. This time, the General was too slow.

The blade pierced his heart, but Tullius felt nothing. Only a punching sensation. He tried to move, but he couldn't. Tullius couldn't move. He looked down in shock at his chest, which was soaked with red, not Imperial purple. _Why wasn't it Imperial purple? _Fear rushed through him and he looked around wildly, before his eyes finally locked onto Ulfric, standing above him.

'**And here we are, Tullius**. You swore you would never rest until one of us was dead. Well,' he stepped back, raising his hands to show off his body; 'you are dying, and I am not. But I want you to know what this was all for, before you leave.'

Tullius spat out blood. The pain was coming, a red hot fire, yet he didn't have the strength to scream. And that was the worst part. He felt his life leaving him, even as Ulfric talked.

'Why?' He choked, his voice weak.

Stormcloak leaned down, so he was right next to Tullius' face. 'Alea. You have my permission to die, General.'

And Tullius sank into oblivion, while the pain dissolved in front of his fading eyes.

**Sorry, I really wanted to put that in. I am sorry for those that liked Tullius, truly I am. The war isn't over yet, so please keep reading, and reviewing. As for Ulfric lovers, well… **

**There is really nothing left to be said. **

_And now, I had to put this in. Some of you will get this reference from 'The Dark Knight Rises'. I saw this and **had** to put it in, but I couldn't insert it into the proper story. My apologies if it's a bit shit. It is completely non-canon. I just had a joke which I wantedrot share. It has no relation to the official,canon story._

**The blade** **pierced his heart**, but Tullius felt nothing. Only a punching sensation. He tried to move, but he couldn't. Tullius couldn't move. He looked down in shock at his chest, which was soaked with red, not Imperial purple. _Why wasn't it Imperial purple? _Fear rushed through him and he looked around wildly, before his eyes finally locked onto Ulfric, standing above him.

'Why didn't you just… kill me?' He said weakly.

Ulfric turned his gaze upwards, his face blank. 'Your punishment must be more severe,' he said simply, his voice surprisingly Bane-like. 'You do not fear death, and you are ready to die for Skyrim, so it would too easy to just kill you. But, when the Empire is ashes,' he looked down, 'you have my permission to die.'

_Rubbish right? Well, you read it._


	57. The Battle of Tongues

**AHAHAHABA! I finished it. (The chapter, not the story). Yes, it is done. Sorry it too so long, but I was pretty busy and this was a hard chapter to right anyway. A lot of emotion and from here, I absolutely promise you we are actually in the countdown now to the end. I'm think ten chapters time, and that will be it. Then, it's Part II! **

**Onto the thanks! To DraGG, thanks for the review. Really pleased to see that it was FRICKING AWESOME and I'm happy I surprised you! To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review! I'm happy that you actually liked the speech, and also I am sorry for Tullius death. I'm also glad to see someone mourn him. To DoctorDovah, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked Ulfric getting his revenge. I didn't want to drag it out as I myself always find that annoying in books. My thanks to JakMar for the review. I'm glad you liked the Rikke fight and the way the chapter finally ended! To hero of all, thanks for the review! I'm pleased to hear that it was great! To HereLies, thanks for the review. Awesomely long as always and you'll find out about Elisif and co. next chapter! To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review! I will make your jaw fall off! Maybe not this chapter, though it's a Jon one, but I will hopefully get you with the very last chapter. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. I suppose the outcome was predictable, but I'm glad you liked it and Rikke's death was surprising. But for my last story in the trilogy, I should be able to get you! Also, what was the idea you had for a story that you mentioned a few reviews ago and wanted help with? To General 77, thanks for the review. I'm happy that you liked it, and as for how Alduin is going to die, well, you'll see. And to CupNoodleSoup for the favourite and CameronC for the favourite as well. Thank you all.**

**I will try and get the next chapter out quicker, but until then, here it is, FINALLY!**

**Also, that Dark Knight thing at the end. People got confused- it was just a joke I put in. Completely non-canon and unrelated to the story. **

**Oh and Delphine hater- congrats! I'm really glad I could help in some small way. My AS results are back in a few days, so please wish me luck. Also, I'll take a guess. If you just got them back are you in the UK…? (Says tentatively.) **

**Jon**

**Jon sat outside the Hall **ofValour, on one of the rocky edges of steep hill, watching the preparations begin. On his arrival, the heroes of Sovngarde had sprung into action, making ready to grah, _battle, _the World Eater. Already they were lining up on the field before the whalebone bridge, to Jon's amazement.  
When he had arrived to kill Alduin he hadn't expected in his wildest dreams that he would lead a force of great heroes, numbering a thousand, against the World Eater's own armies. It seemed absurd, yet here they were, preparing to do battle with his foe. _It felt strange, but no stranger than recent events_, Jon reflected wearily.  
Even so, Paarthurnax had made its purpose quite clear. The only way to lure Alduin out was to get him to do battle. Otherwise, the wuth, _old_, dragon suspected that his brother would stay hidden, and it could be years before they would be able to find him. Years Jon didn't have. 'But a direct challenge would insult his pride,' Paarthurnax had said; 'and he will come now. As a dovah he must.'  
But even the impending battle wasn't the most unbelievable thing about his journey. Seeing his mother had knocked Jon off his feet, and then her revelation had twisted his hahdrim, _mind_, leaving it even more confused than before.  
Jon wanted to be 'of Solitude', but he couldn't shake off Dovahkiin and now he was being hailed as Stormcloak! It was too much, yet Jon knew he would have to come to terms with it all eventually, but which to choose? He just wanted to live with Ysold, and Alsfur. Perhaps being a Stormcloak was the new start he needed? Maybe...  
'How are you, Jon?' He made no reply. 'Jon?'  
Dovahkiin raised his head to see who had interrupted his thoughts: it was his mother, Alea.  
'Fine,' he said. Jon was in no mood to talk, even to his mother.  
She pursed her lips. 'You don't look fine.'  
'I am.'  
'Jon, I raised you for fourteen years. I know something's wrong. Is it about Ulfric?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'Of course it is,' she guessed, laughing bitterly. She looked at Jon sadly. 'Maybe I shouldn't have told you.'  
'Ulfric Stormcloak,' Jon said tightly. 'Dii Bormah. My father.' _Just another of my internal struggles._  
Alea looked surprised. 'Why the venom, Jon?'

It was a good question. There were many reasons for he had been less than pleased to find out that his bormah, _father_, was Ulfric Stormcloak, but they were all hard to explain. He knew that in a way he blamed the other Nord for his Mother's death, despite her own protests. Jon also knew that he couldn't bring himself to justify Ulfric's cause; not since he had arrived in Sovngarde. His war was making Alduin stronger, and it seemed so pointless now. There were so many dead, and while the Empire had its flaws, it had created the only known peace in the history of Tamriel. Peace was worth fighting for, but Ulfric's cause…

Jon knew it would never achieve peace. There would always be any enemy for the kah, _proud_, Nords, and then they were back to where they started. Another thought had struck Jon: the Empire was Talos' creation. Through it's survival the Imperial's were ensuring that his memory remained alive, and even so Jon was unsure of what the God would think if he saw Ulfric destroying it, in his name no less. But then, Jon was unsure about so much now. Once he had been confident, _like Ulfric_, he reflected with a bitter smile, but since his viik, _defeat_, by Alduin, things hadn't been the same, nor would they ever be, even if he did kill the World Eater today. The dovah had already shown Jon a side of himself that he had not thought existed, but now he couldn't ignore. Alduin would leave him damaged, whatever happened.

Jon felt an arm around him, and instinctively thought of Ysold, before he realised that his mother was holding him, drawing him close.

'Why should I love Ulfric?' He said, coolly. 'I've met him, he was a decent man, yet he throws people away for an unworthy cause. He's a hypocrite. That isn't decent.'

Alea pulled away and looked Jon in the eye. 'He's better than you think.'

He looked her strangely, his mind opening up another thought. 'You love him, don't you? He left you, and killed you-'

'No, Jon. He's a complicated man, but this hate is not fair. It is unjustified.'

The Dovahkiin said nothing, and looked away, trying to get a hold on his feelings. Without a word he stood, and looked down at his mother. 'I can't promise you I will ever love him.'

'Nor will I ever ask you to. I have told you everything now, so make your decision. But know this; Ulfric is a broken man. My death must feel like the second time I've been killed in his eyes. He barely made it through the first, but now… He will never recover until he enters the Hall of Valour.' She fell silent and Jon, having nothing more to say, left her on the bank, making for the army massing on the other side of the bridge.

**It was a short walk **there, but in that time Jon had an opportunity to reflect on the coming battle. He had never fought in one before, and the mood that surrounded it unnerved him. But as always, he kept a blank face and strode forward with a heavy step.

Jon stopped before Tsun, who was still guarding the bridge.

'Are you going to fight?'

'I guard the bridge, Dovahkiin. Nothing more. However if they come, I will not shame myself.'

Jon nodded, having expecting nothing more, and continued over to the lot, _great_, shape of Paarthurnax, who was sitting with the First Tongues, the chosen battle commanders, as they prepared to meet Alduin's forces on the flat ground in front of the whalebone bridge.

'Jon Stormcloak!' The younger man, who had introduced himself as Hakon 'One-Eye' Stormcloak, was a large, boisterous Nord. He considered Jon is true kin, and as a result was always embracing him and trying to prove his superiority in mock contests over the short time the Dovahkiin had known him. His sister, Gormlaith Stormcloak was much quieter. She was called 'Golden-Hilt' for her dominance in wielding Kodaav in her day, now a phantom version of the blade Jon carried. The wuth, _old_, man had revealed himself as Felldir Winter, called 'the Old', the sire of Clan Winter, who were the Jarl's of Winterhold in present day. Jon still found it unnerving to be within the presence of his ancestors, though they had greeted him warmly enough. The two Stormcloaks, without fail, referred to Jon as one of them, whereas Felldir used his first name, carefully avoiding the surname as if he didn't believe in Jon's claim. It didn't bother the Dovahkiin too much. At the moment he was still coming to terms with his scattered identities.

'So,' Hakon said; 'I trust you will be leading us against Alduin?'

Jon hadn't asked for this responsibility, but it was his war and the World Eater was his hokoron, _enemy,_ so he took the power without complaint. Secretly, he was happy to have been given this responsibility. It made him feel good, and the power felt natural in his hands. He knew this was arrogant and against anything else he tried to force himself to believe, but it also made him feel like more of Stormcloak. Despite his protests for adopting the name, in all honestly, Jon was pleased to be referred to as so. It was an unusual feeling for him to experience, but then the Clan it represented was one of immense power and authority in Skyrim, the land where he had been born.

'Aye, I will lead you,' Jon confirmed, after his nod. 'I have no large scale battle experience though, so my orders will be directed through instinct.'

'Is that good enough though,' Felldir Winter asked. 'We're about to face Alduin, and what happens here decides the fate of Tamriel.'

'Stop being so grumpy, Felldir,' Hakon told him, scowling.

'I just want to ensure that we are given the best chance of survival.'

Jon watched them, unwilling to intervene, but he didn't have to. Paarthurnax spoke, drowning out their voices and sending the sound rippling across the misty land.

'This is the Dovahkiin's destiny. Kinbok alok ko grah. He will live with the consequences of what happens today, and all decisions are his to make alone.'

Felldir inclined his head respectfully. 'As you wish, old one.'

Paarthurnax seemed satisfied, but the conversation had made Jon feel a little sick. People expected great things from him today, but he wasn't sure if he could deliver. The impending fight with Alduin scared him, yet there was only one path now. He knew he had to banish the self doubt that betrayed his every action, and step up to his destiny, but it was hard. Maybe too hard.

Jon composed himself, looking over his muddy armour, worn by travel and the strong ven, _winds_, when flying Odahviing and turned his gaze to a man climbing the small hill to their position.

'My lord Dovahkiin-'He cried, as he approached.

'Stormcloak,' Hakon told the man. 'Call him Lord Stormcloak.'

'He has no right to the name,' Felldir objected.

Gormlaith had been silent until now, but she had obviously decided it was time to speak up. 'He is mighty and his blo0d is ours. That of the old Nede; it runs through his veins even now. My brother and I give him the right, as he has earned. Isn't that so, Jon?' She asked.

The Dragonborn looked between them, caught in the dispute. He knew that he had to make a decision now. Who did he want to be? The answer was simple: he wanted a second chance at his life with Ysold.

'I am Jon Stormcloak,' he told them. Felldir looked angry, but the Dragonborn's kin looked satisfied. Jon, however, suddenly felt dirty. He had just wrestled with the identity, and had damned Ulfric, and now he was taking on his name? It was tearing Jon apart, but he didn't have the luxury to go away and come to terms with his revelations. People were relying on him, and it was his duty that had to come first now.

Jon Stormcloak turned his attention to the messenger. 'What's your report?' The words sounded heavy and awkward on his tongue, but he supposed it was a feeling he might get used to.

'The World Eater is coming. His armies have broken past the first defences, and they're coming here.'

'Right. You can go now,' Jon told the man.

'Yes, of course.' He left them just as another Hun, _Hero_, stepped up to Stormcloak.

He was huge, and clad in heavy steel armour. On his back was a massive axe, and blonde hair obscured his face. It was Ysgramor, the legendary leader of the Five Hundred Companions.

'So, when is Alduin showing his face, eh?' He boomed.

'Now, it seems,' Jon said. He took the opportunity to issue his first orders, with a slight lurching thrill. 'I want you to hold the centre with your Companions. It should provide a strong backbone in the battle.'

'Strong,' Ysgramor scoffed; 'we'll be unbreakable.'

'And I'd like the Elven heroes near you as well-'

'No! I'm not standing next to some goldie.'

'The hell is a "goldie",' Hakon asked, looking sceptical.

'An elf! What else?' Ysgramor turned back to Jon. 'And I won't have one near me!'

'These Elves have fought bravely, and held our beliefs. They have earned their places, and if you don't accept that then you can have the privilege of holding the back of the line.'

'I don't take orders from some Nordic brat,' he roared.

'Then you won't take part in the battle!' Jon shot back, angrily.

'Well, fine. If you don't need me, then we'll go back to the Hall for some good feasting.' He made to leave, but Felldir stopped him.

'The Dragonborn was joking, of course. No Elves will be near you in the battle.'

Ysgramor looked at Jon suspiciously, as if he didn't believe this, and Stormcloak stared back coldly, but eventually he grunted his approval and walked back down the hill to his men. Felldir breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Jon.

'What was that?'

The youngest Stormcloak looked down at him. 'I assumed he wouldn't be able to resist a fight, regardless of any complaint he had.'

'Well, I fear your judge of character was wrong this time,' the old hero said.

Jon ignored him, and looked down at the men forming up at the bottom of the hill, on the flat plain in front of it, before turning his attention to the land beyond. The path to the bridge was surrounded by hills and other obstructions. If they could trap Alduin's forces in that funnel…

'Gormlaith and Hakon, would you do you a favour?' They nodded, looking a little weary. 'Get the men to block the path as it exits the surrounding valley. We could trap Alduin's lahvu, _army_, in there.'

Felldir looked over at the hill. 'True. It is an astute observation.'

The Stormcloak siblings seemed to agree when Felldir made his comment and made their way down to the small army, bellowing orders.

'I think my zeymah, _brother,_ shall finally meet his doom today,' Paarthurnax said, his voice rumbling.

'What do you mean?'

The white dragon looked at Felldir, who retreated down the hill, before tuning back to Jon. 'I can see his death this day.'

The Dovahkiin was struck by a thought that had never occurred to him before. 'Why do you wish your brother dead? Even with his crimes, he is still your kin.'

Paarthurnax sagged a little, and a look of immense weariness covered his face and eyes. 'I am willing to abandon family loyalties for Reason. What we need is a united world, for an evil stirs. Aan lot Vokul. If it is allowed to win, then perhaps what we have done here does not matter. Remember, Dovahkiin; white snow, and two armies of immense strength, one of shifting colours, the other golden. You will be faced with a choice, and you must make the right one.'

'I don't understand?' Jon asked, curious to see how the dovah's words related to his own problems.

'I have said what I will.' Paarthurnax fell into silence, and Jon was left to reflect on the wuth, _old, _dragon's words, before it happened.

A roar pierced the night. With a sinking feeling, Jon realised that it could belong to only one dragon: Alduin, the World Eater had come to battle.

**His army was massive, Jon **thought, as he looked over it. His keen eyes could pick out the shapes of it through the mist, which had begun to descend on the Hall's hill in full force. The souls were a terrifying site. Their mutilated bodies and rusty armour, coupled with their hideous stench, sent fear down the line. There were thousands of them. Roars pierced the night, but they were of other dragons, Jon noticed. Each time, Paarthurnax answered them, bellowing his challenge into the sky.

Jon had wanted to join the battle, which was beginning at the exit of the valley, but the old dovah and held him back. Paarthurnax wanted him to be at his full mulaag, _strength_, for when Alduin finally revealed himself, and Jon was forced to accept the wisdom of the advice. He quickly found out that the watching of a battle was no easier than participating: it was worse. He could hear the cries of the wounded, the screams of agony and the clanging of steel. The newly formed fog allowed him little observation, and he couldn't shift it, even with Paarthurnax's thu'um joined with his own. But he could tell, with a sinking heart, how the battle was progressing.

The heroes were being pushed back, seemingly by sheer weight of numbers. Their backs emerged from the fog, struggling against the lost souls, and before them the ground was steadily choked with bodies. The mud that flew up around their feet was a dark red, and this sos, _blood, _had made the grass wet and muddy.

Jon Stormcloak felt helpless, and watched as his men were picked off slowly. Paarthurnax reined him in, but the Dragonborn still felt like he should be down there with the heroes, who were dying for his victory.

Until now, he hadn't seen any of the dragon's that were supposedly with Alduin's army. Jon scanned the lok, _sky_, but there was nothing. Beside him though, Paarthurnax crouched, his tail whipping from side to side.

'Prepare yourself, Dovahkiin.'

Jon didn't need to ask his meaning, because a second later two dovah swept out of the mist, aiming at them on their hill. Stormcloak's blood started pumping, and the familiar thrill brushed aside any anticipation or fear he harboured before in his mind. With a bellowing cry Jon drew Kodaav and swung it as the dovah approached, breathing yol, _fire_.

His armour boiled around him, but Dovahkiin's skin shielded him and he drew his sword deep along its wing joints. The dragon fell with a trail of blood, screaming, circling so that it fell down on the incline of their hill, tearing up the ground. The dovah struggled to its feet, but Jon was already on it, and he smashed Kodaav through its skull. It took a large amount of effort, but Jon was heartened to the see that the blade itself had no problem breaking the hard scales of the dragon's head. The Dragonborn turned to see Paarthurnax finish his own opponent easily. As always Jon was awed by the dovah's supreme strength against his own kind, as well as its sudden fury, unanticipated from his calm exterior.

But Dovahkiin didn't have time to reflect on it further. To his surprise, the battle was now being fought below them, the backs of the heroes now being pressed into the grassy bank. Jon stepped back up the hill as five dovah descended on them.

He raised his sword and readied his thu'um, undaunted by their numbers, fuelled on by his bloodlust. But his uneasy position on the slope, retreating from the battle, loosened his footing and Jon was thrown over by the force of the wind on the dragon's wings. With a cry of krongrah, _victory_, two descended, but Paarthurnax leapt into the fray and took to the sky to battle them, saving the fallen Jon. The other dovah made for the bridge, and Tsun.

Jon raised himself and watched as they tried to attack the god. A flash of silver leaped from his hand, and his axe punched through one of their chests. The unfortunate dragon fell next to him without a sound, save the thump on the ground, while the other tried to land on Tsun, in an attempt to crush him. But with no apparent effort the god grabbed the fallen dragon, and swung it at its kin. The crack of bones signalled the dovah's end as the last landed, striking at Tsun with lightning speed. It was futile. The rah, _God_, dodged, and brought his axe down on its head, shattering it completely. He roared his defiance to the sky, as a dark shape burst from the fog.

Alduin swept at Tsun, breathing his bright fire. The inferno engulfed the god and Jon noticed Tsun buckle under its heat. But suddenly, with a roar of rahgot, _anger_, the huge Nord leapt from the fire, swinging his axe at Alduin. The World Eater dodged, glancing the blow off his head before striking with his teeth, and ripping out Tsun's heart.

The God fell as Jon watched in silent disbelief. His fear of failure turned into raging fury and he stood without another thought, hell-bent on finally destroying Alduin.

'FACE ME, ALDUIN! LET US END THIS!'

The dragon king turned, and laughed. 'The weak joor, _mortal_, who claimed the name of a dovah. I should have killed you the first time. Alas, it was a mistake, but one easily remedied.' He swept into the sky, his eyes glowing with anticipation, and Jon knew what he had to do. He couldn't fight him in the sky, but there was one tool he could use. Until now, he had been too scared to staadnau, _unleash_, it, afraid of what it would do to him. But now, he had no choice. Jon gathered all his strength to him and with a burst of love for Ysold, duty to his destiny, regret for the dead in the battle, and most importantly he desire to eradicate Alduin entirely, Dovahkiin shouted the Great Shout: Dragonrend.

The words were not familiar to Jon, and his lips and tongue were unfamiliar to them, but the effect was incredible.

A blue light burst from his lips and raced towards Alduin. The dovah roared his derision, but then it hit him and the world shattered. Sound broke, ringing through Jon's ears, and Alduin's wings crumpled, tearing themselves apart. He screamed, a sound of deepest fear, the only one in this silent world, and fell. The ground was ripped up, flying everywhere as the World Eater hit it, exploding in all directions, and throwing Jon back, down the hill.

The mist sunk into the ground and disappeared. Everyone turned to watch as Jon picked himself up and walked towards the crater, swinging Kodaav by his side. As he approached, a black shape crawled from the ground, its scales dull and mortal, looking smaller, and for the first time Jon saw fear in the dragon's eyes. Jon laughed, and the two foes started to circle, Alduin hissing and snapping, while Dovahkiin was cool, and calm.

'Where did you learn that? How?' The World Eater said, his voice feeble and thin.

'It's simple. I have the power to grasp what you cannot. And now that we are equals, I'll finish this. Only one of us will leave here, Alduin.'

'You are sahlo, _weak_. You cannot kill me! I am the firstborn of Akatosh! Zu'u unslaad, zu'u nis oblaan!'

'It's written in qethsegol, _stone_, Alduin. It ends here.'

Jon ran at the World Eater and swung Kodaav, aiming for the dovah's head. To his surprise, Alduin dodged, and swung his head with the force of a catapult. Jon ducked, but the dovah clipped him and he fell heavily, his klov, _head,_ exploding with light. Alduin was far more powerful than he had anticipated and now all his cocky arrogance was gone, instead replaced by the need to survive. He rolled as the World Eater smashed his claws into the ruined earth, covering him in it. Jon coughed and glanced at the battle. It was getting closer to them, and the heroes were falling back to the bridge.

'Daar Lein los dii. _This World is mine_!' The World Eater breathed yol, _fire_, down on him, but Jon shouted. The frost burst as it hit Alduin's flame, and the aftershock shattered against Jon. Cold pain covered him, but he was gratified to see Alduin suffer the same punishment. The World Eater recovered and raised his head, barring his razor sharp teeth, ready to bite down. Jon didn't have time to be scared, instead his throat tightened and he released a thu'um instinctively. It smashed against Alduin jaw and red hot scales fell on Jon, scalding him. He cried out in pain, and used his anger to launch a powerful strike at one of Alduin's feet, even as he was on the ground trapped. Kodaav sunk in deep and the dovah roared in agony. Jon rolled away as Alduin reared up, splashing blood onto the choked ground and dived down as a ripple of flame burst over his head.

'You claim to be a dovah, yet you ru zunless, _run weaponless_!' Alduin taunted, following him.

Jon turned, as the dovah smashed down a foot on him. The Dragonborn managed to dodge the bulk of the strike, but one of the World Eater's claws cut him, tearing his mail down from his shoulder to his hip, and ripping his flesh. Pain burst from the wound, and blood squeezed out as Jon retreated, the two parts of flesh rubbing together. His right arm was useless now, engulfed in pain, the shoulder mutilated, so now only his left could wield a zahkrii, _sword_. He cried out in pain and panic, the shout turning into a tremendous thu'um which ripped through Alduin's leg, destroying it.

The dragon king bellowed in anger, his leg broken. Fire began to rain down from the sky, landing in the army with no exception for friend or foe. Jon was surprised by the power, and as he returned his attention to Alduin the dragon smashed him with his head, sending him flying down the hill.

The Dragonborn landed in the battle, and his leg made a snapping sound. Tears streamed down Jon's face as he struggled to his feet. Fate was kind; his leg was not broken. The battleswirled around him. At Dovahkiin's feet was bodies, and the men struggled against each other, their weapons flashing as flesh covered the ground. He looked around in wild fury, determined to find Alduin. Before he could though, Jon was grabbed from behind. Without a thought the Dragonborn slashed his dagger through the man's arm. The dead soul fell at his feet and he viciously buried the skyforge steel into his neck, and then ripped it out with a spurt of sos, _blood_. He looked around again, trying to avoid the press. His shoulder was on fire; it was eating away at his consciousness, and it was taking all his strength to stay upright, let alone actually fight Alduin.

With a roar, the World Eater descended, slamming down into the battle. The lost souls started running, and screaming and he swung his head in derision.

'Meyye! Tahrodiis aanne! Him hinde pah liiv! Zu'u hin daan! _Fools! Treacherous ones! All wither! I am your king__!_ Stand and fight!' Alduin gave up trying to command the dead and turned to face Jon, his eyes blazing.

Stormcloak turned and prepared to finish the battle. He knew he only had one chance. His blood was exploding through his veins, and his mutilated shoulder. Alduin was limping, but the leg where Kodaav was lodged had not been hit by the thu'um. _I have one chance. _Alduin's head launched out towards Jon, and he dodged, sliding on his uninjured side through the wet muddy ground to the World Eater's leg. With a roar of pain and victory, the Dragonborn yanked the sword free and slammed it through the bottom of Alduin's head, the long blade breaking his skull and piercing his brain.

The World Eater fell, screaming, and his scales melting into a black inferno that covered Jon and filled him up. It seeped into his skin, fortifying his strength. Paarthurnax's soul had been pure and strong, but the World Eater's was immense, and Stormcloak felt his limbs tingle with suleyk, _power,_ as it entered him. The feeling left him charged, and tingling with energy.

Jon didn't bother to watch his arch-enemy's body dissolve, and he ignored the shriek that reverberated through the sky, instead revelling in how he felt. With the use of Dragonrend, Jon felt pure, and clean. It was as if he had washed out the more draconic qualities of himself, and returned to normal. They were still there, of course, but deep down, and subdued. He smiled, and raised his bloody zahkrii_, sword_ in triumph, drunk on his final success. The weariness of his limbs was gone, and his salute was met with a roar of not just the heroes, but the newly released lost souls, who started making their way to the Hall to be healed and restored.

Jon Stormcloak turned to see Paarthurnax descend next to him. He was looking subdued, but the Dragonborn couldn't blame him; he had just watched his brother die. Even so, the old dovah inclined his head, as everyone else bowed, and roared their praise. Jon let it wash over him, and freeing him of all the pain and doubt that had he had been subjected to, allowing him to finally appreciate this moment. From their midst strode Tsun, newly reformed and beaming. He clasped Jon's hand and bowed his own head.

'King Shor congratulates you, Dovahkiin. Your victory shall be told in our stories from now on, and I promise you that one day you will return here. On that day, I will greet you as a subject, and His Grace Shor will see you as a brother, and you shall ascend in Sovngarde as Dovahkiin, God of Destiny, Duty and Determination. Great shall be your reign here, with Shor. But now, I fear you still have a task to perform, though it will be smaller than you think.'

Jon bowed, overcome by swirling emotions of joy, happiness and excitement. 'You honour me.'

'No more than you deserve.' His smile faded a little. 'Now, you must go. We are in your debt, but now is not your time. I will see you when the ground trembles, and gold replaces scarlet. Goodbye, Jon of Clan Stormcloak, "Dragonborn".'

And with that, Jon was thrust back into cold snow, and surrounded by the roar of dragons.

**REVIEW! Please, please, please. Also, Alduin's dead. Kinda sad to see him go, as he was pretty badass. Oh well, he might return. Maybe. **


	58. High King

**Quick note: Jon will become a God on his death. He will join the Nordic pantheon, which has loads of Gods. It's not set like the Cyrodillic one with the Divines, who are the big dogs. So, yes, he can just become a god. (I have the Skyim Game Guide, so I'm pretty sure my God facts are right. If not, I'll use the 'it's a fanfic' excuse. **

**The thanks: to kalimali, thanks for the review! Jon will become a god, but not a divine. To JakMar, thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked the chapter, and picked up on Paarthy's warning. Guess, you'll have to wait to see what happens though! To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review! I love those five words! EPIC! To ejthepinoy, thanks for the review! The main quest is done, and next chapter Jon will take a side. Alduin may return, but not in this book, or the next and if so it will not be as you expect. Thanks for the 'anything will be epic!' Love live the, er… one of them! To shamesh, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you found it amazing, and the end is coming up quick. To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the Ysgramor hates Elves touch, and as for hating them all, he probably does. But who knows? To Delphine hater, thanks for the review (s)! You used 'remarkable'. Brilliant. And also, you talked about London and being English, I must defend it. It only rains most of the week, and while London is fairly depressing, and hot (seriously hot), the rest of the countries great. And we had a badass Olympic opening ceremony! Also, never fear. If Alduin returns, it will not be as you expect, nor will it play a big part. Anyway, I'm playing with ideas. It's pretty unlikely. As for Alea, I'm sorry but she isn't returning. Only one person will ever be seen again from Sovngarde, bit no one will ever step back onto Talos green country ever again. I'm sorry. It will become very important later though. To Ultimate Assassin, thanks for the review. Glad you liked the last line. The Dark Knight Rises is a great movie. I preferred Bane over Joker, personally. Thanks to beautifulelvengirl for the story favourite. To General77, Jon will not return to Skyrim a God. Only once he is dead, will he actually become powerful… just when he will then be useless in battles, as Gods never get involved, generally, in mortal affairs. Also, Alduin had been destroyed by Dragonrend. He was gone, and dead already. Also, yes, you are providing a druggie now. You are a dealer! To HereLies, thanks for the great review! So much to say, I'll pick one thing- I'm really pleased you liked Alea and Jon's relationship! To NullMoon, thanks for the story follower! To Nom Opii, thanks for the story favourite! To DraGG, thanks for the review! YES! I'm really super happy you liked the new Dragonrend, and Jon's thought process! Thank you all. That was brilliant! Took ages, but brilliant! **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak **

**Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak walked into **the Blue Palace in a haze. His mind was swirling with emotions, all connected to Alea. _I did it! I killed Tullius. _Relief, and joy, and love, all burst from his mind, mulling over all his thoughts. He just wanted to rest, and contemplate his victory over the Imperials, but Galmar had drawn his attention to more immediate matters.

'You have won, Ulfric!' The Carl laughed and embraced the other Nord, as they stood over the General's body. 'We have won! This is a good day, truly.'

'Yes,' Ulfric agreed, distracted. 'Tullius is dead.'

'And the Empire beaten!'

'What?'

Galmar looked at him, his smile a little uncertain. 'You have beaten the Empire.'

With a start, Ulfric realised that he had. He hadn't been thinking about that when he killed the General, but it was true. His mission was complete: almost.

'Yes, yes it is. Send ravens to the other Jarls, and have them swear me fealty as their High King. I won it when I bested Torygg, so no law is breached.'

'Aye, my future Grace! I have them sent immediately.'

'Yes, good.' Ulfric was still distracted, as he stared at the Tullius' body.

'I'll take my leave.' The Jarl clasped hands with his Housecarl before he left, leaving Ulfric alone with his joy.

From there Stormcloak had made his way quickly over to the Blue Palace, after he remembered that Elisif would be there, no doubt awaiting him. It was a long walk, and the storm still attacked the city, covering everything in an icy sheet, but Ulfric's memories of Alea warmed his walk through the cold city.

On arriving at the Blue Palace, a place that brought back vivid memories of his duel with the former High King, he found it already occupied by Stormcloaks. _I have some efficient Captain's in my ranks, _Ulfric thought satisfied. They let him through without a word and the Jarl strode into the palace, ignoring the décor, instead looking for the Steward. A Nord with a red beard approached him, and Ulfric turned to face him.

The Steward bowed. 'Are you here to see Lady Elisif, my Jarl?' His face was tight; the Nord was obviously not pleased with defeat, but Ulfric had no time for cowards.

'Fight in the battle, and then you'll have an opinion on what happened,' he said coldly. 'Now, yes, I am looking for Elisif.'

'She's in her room. Shall I escort-'

'No. I'll find my own way up.' Still in his armour, Ulfric made his way to the steps and took them two at a time quickly, drunk on his revenge. It wasn't hard to find her apartments; they were the grandest, and he had already been to them anyway, in the distant past.

Her door was closed but it didn't daunt Ulfric. He pushed it open, and was met with a strange site. Elisif was surrounded by two men, obviously soldiers fresh from the field. She was looking suitably terrified, and one of the men was advancing towards her, his hand resting on a dagger. It was pretty clear what they wanted.

The site dulled Ulfric's mood and stoked the fires of his anger. He didn't permit rape, especially not to a Jarl, even a former one. He bellowed out an order and they turned, terrified. He jerked his head, not trusting himself to speak, and they quickly made their way from the room.

Stormcloak rubbed his face; he had expected an incident like this, but still… He turned his attention back to Elisif, who was huddling in the corner, crying. As a Jarl people forgot that's he was little more than a girl, but Ulfric hadn't. But then, neither was he ready to comfort her; it would be far too hypocritical. Instead he pulled Elisif up and sat her on the bed. Her body was wracked by sobs, and he sat next to the former Jarl, waiting for her to finish.

After a minute or so, Elisif pulled herself back together, and looked up at Ulfric, with red, puffy eyes. Even like this, she was beautiful. It was no wonder why people called her 'the Fair', but the Windhelm Jarl wasn't here to admire her. Ulfric was far too loyal to Alea's memory. He was here to discuss the process of handing the city over.

'Are you ready to talk now?' He asked, perhaps more roughly than he originally intended. She nodded and Ulfric sighed. 'You will gain no favour with me, Elisif.' Normally he would just take her from office, and replace her with a man of his own, but he found, to his surprise, that he couldn't do it. _How can I throw out a girl into exile? _He looked down again, working his jaw as he wrestled with his better sense, and his own mercy.

'Do you want to stay on as Jarl?' He looked at her, his eyes piercing.

'Yes,' she said quietly, her voice small and humbled. The sound tugged at Ulfric's heart, but he tried to ignore it.

'I have some conditions to discuss with you then.' He looked at her to see how she would react, but Elisif was still looking at him shyly. _Talos! She's like a maiden. _Ulfric had to admit, despite his better instincts, her act was growing on him. She looked too vulnerable to actually try and impose loser's penalties on. Even so, Ulfric had to do something, or risk walking away looking too weak.

'If you are to remain in power, then I will have to make some changes. First, you will swear me allegiance as High King.' For a moment Elisif looked like she wanted to protest, but didn't, instead holding her tongue. The former Jarl's eyes looked pained though, and it took a moment for Ulfric to remember that she had actually loved the last King, and so hearing of his death, even in an indirect way, must still rub raw feelings she had for him. _But then, it was hard for me to lose Alea! Why should I spare her any pity? _But he knew the answer. It was because he could sympathise.

'You will swear me fealty, and I will replace your court with my own people.' She nodded, still silent, and he continued. 'I will also choose your next husband-'

'I assumed you would take me to bride,' she said quietly. Elisif looked sad and dejected, but hopeful in a strange way. Ulfric himself was shocked that she even considered it.

'Is that what you want?'

'I suppose you're better than some other people.'

Ulfric looked offended, but honestly wasn't sure how to react. 'I appreciate the… compliment. Why me?'

'You're honourable in a strange way.' She looked like she wanted to say more, but Ulfric knew what else she was getting at; he was in better shape than some of the people she might be forced to marry.

'I won't marry you, but I will let you choose your husband. However your choice must be to men I see fit.'

She nodded, but with a look that suggested she was building up her courage, said; 'don't you need an heir?'

Ulfric's face tightened. Until now he had forgotten about Alea's son, such was his desire to kill Tullius, but now… He had no idea were the boy could be, most likely in Solitude itself. Ulfric decided that he would to send men to round up all the young men of… _How old would he be? Nearly thirty_, Ulfric guessed. He would be of fighting age, which means…

Ulfric's body shuddered with an icy chill. It was possible that he could have fought with the Imperials, and if so…

The Jarl jerked to his feet. 'Stay here,' he commanded Elisif before quickly finding the nearest guard.

'You,' he called, to a man who was walking through the corridors. He turned, looking alarmed at Ulfric's tone, before jumping to attention. 'Tell the men to keep the prisoners safe. Do it!'

The man sprinted off without a word, but he did shoot Ulfric a strange look. The Jarl ignored it, and turned, trying to control his breathing. He calmed down, thinking of Alea. He used these memories to drown out his problems and stop his racing mind. _It would be fine. The boy probably left here years ago. If not, well, he's a Stormcloak; he wouldn't have been killed in battle. _The excuse sounded thin, even to his own ears, but Ulfric managed to comfort himself with this thought and made his way to the throne room, where his Captains were assembled, for need of a task to keep his mind off his current problems.

He found them talking, and by their hopeful expressions as they looked at him, Ulfric knew he ought to make some inspiring victory speech, but he couldn't muster up the energy right now. His defeat of Tullius had drained him. Instead he said;

'The Imperial Legion is destroyed. We are victorious. All I now require are pledges of allegiances from the other Jarls, in the form of them appearing before me here in Solitude, and then we have won.' He turned to Galmar. 'You have sent the ravens, yes?'

The Housecarl's face looked pale, and angry. That wasn't a good sign. 'I sent them, aye. I also received a homing pigeon; the fastest message. It was from the Jarl of Whiterun.'

Ulfric frowned. Galmar was quiet, and careful, like he was suppressing something. Stormcloak knew where this was going, and his anger began to rise.

'He received a message from Tullius, two days ago it would seem,' the Carl continued. 'He sent a reply, congratulating the Imperials on their victory; or, in the prospect of an Imperial defeat, his refusal to accept you as High King. He says,' Galmar read from the letter; 'There is still one Imperial stronghold left, Stormcloak.'

Ulfric's expression darkened, before he turned to his captains, who were looking as shocked and angry as Stormcloak himself felt. 'It appears, my friends, that Balgruuf has chosen the wrong side. It is up to us to show him the error of his ways. Prepare the men, Galmar. We'll march in three days.'

The Housecarl bowed. 'Yes, of course. I will see to it.'

'You are dismissed,' the Jarl told his officers, and they dispersed quickly, obviously unnerved by his dark, but restrained anger. Ulfric strode to the throne and sat in it heavily, brooding deeply.

_I will see Skyrim bow for you, Alea. _Her words, now lost in time, came back to him: _you would have made me a princess, Ulfric. _At the time, he was unsure if she had meant it, but nowit didn't matter_; she will be a Queen, even in death. The men of Sovngarde will bow for her, and I will build a better Skyrim… for her son. _He didn't sleep that night.

**Jon will choose a side next! Please REVIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW WWWW! Review! Oh, and I did my facts will the bird messenger thing. A homing pigeon could fly 500 miles in a day, so its not too unrealistic for Ulfric and the gang to receive the message when they did. **


	59. Becoming Stormcloak

**Looking at your reviews and from advice I decided to rewrite the Alduin fight. (Just the fight. never fear, you don't have to reread the whole thing.) Check it out. Some of the stuff that's happened to Jon won't make sense otherwise. Also, thanks to HereLies for getting rid of the typos and advising. I really appreciate it!**

**The thanks: to JakMar thanks for the review! All your questions and predictions will be answered this chapter. Read on! To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review! Glad to see someone else who likes Elisif. And thanks for noticing the raven thing. To ejthepinoy, thanks for the review! I see that you're siding for Balgruuf! The battle starts very soon and hopefully it should be epic! To Chris The Cat, thanks for the story favourite, follower, favourite, story follower and the review(s)! I'm glad you like the characters and story. As for the mistakes, well they are my bane and I have now decided that two Daedra will definitely been seen in the third story. I'll release further details later. To HereLies, thanks for another terrific review. Thanks for all the great comments. I love your in depth think about it insight. Brilliant as always. And thanks for the advice! To DraGG, thanks for the review. I'm glad you like the research and Elisif's attraction to Ulfric. Thanks for the revvvvvviiiieeewww! To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. I really appreciate the compliment and as for the reconciliation, well it's all about whether Jon survives long enough to get in there. And Bane is seriously cool. To Lucie, thanks for the review. Hope you had a nice holiday. You're right. The Whiterun guy and Ulfric are going to fight, and it's going to be epic. To Aero, thanks for the review. Balgruuf does take a side in the game and I'm really happy you liked the Elisif and Ulfric conversation. Also thanks for the compliment on the chapters. It made my day! To General77, thanks for the review. Calm down! That chapter was needed but sometimes there's nothing more to say. This chapter is longer and out quicker, so I hope that pleases you. As for becoming a God, in several ways the Nordic Pantheon reflects the Cyrodillic but in other ways it doesn't. So, Jon could become a God, a lesser god I grant you, on death. To ay1234, thanks for the story favourite and story follower! To dhogan6, thanks for the story follower, favourite, story favourite and follower.**

**Here we go! Party time! (Almost.)  
**

**Jon Stormcloak **

**Jon Stormcloak woke in a **blaze of agony. His shoulder was searing with pain and for a few moments he just slumped against the snow, trying to fight the pain. When it became bearable Jon gritted his teeth and stood. The site he saw took the breath out of him.

He was surrounded on the strunmah, _mountain, _by dragons. Hundreds of dragons. They circled the sky, and perched on the Throat of the World, roaring together. From their midst descended Odahviing, dusted in white snow.

'Greetings, Dovahkiin.'

For a second Jon was too stunned to reply. He breathed deeply, his wound forgotten, and looked up at the dovah. 'What is this?'

Odahviing looked surprised. 'What else? Fin dovah yah hin ahmik. They are paying their allegiance to you. You, Dovahkiin, who has bested Alduin and taken the dragon crown.'

Jon was dumbfounded, but he quickly regained his senses. 'I'm their In, _Master_?'

'No! We are too stin, _free, _to be shackled! We will not attack you, yet you have little power over us.'

Jon had expected that, and so he wasn't surprised by Odahviing's answer. As the red dragon talked, the other dovah began to fly away, and soon it was just them together on the mountain. Stormcloak noticed with a heavy heart that Paarthurnax's bones were gone. Thinking of the old dragon reminded Jon of his words, and their own ominous feel. He thought he knew what they meant, but he couldn't be sure.

Odahviing ignored Jon's brooding and instead interrupted, with all the patience of a dovah. 'You will want to keep up with current news, yes Dovahkiin?'

'I've only been gone a few sul, _days_,' Jon said as he sat on a rock, trying to conserve his strength. 'I doubt anything has happened.'

'You are incorrect then. Pogaas loost koraav. _Much has been seen. _Jarl Windhelm is marching on the middle city. Middle Jarl issued a challenge, worthy of Jun, _Kings. _That said, Jarl Windhelm is now Jun Windhelm-'

'Wait?' Jon interrupted. 'What's the "middle city"?'

'Krosis,' Odahviing apologized. 'The city of heroes.'

Stormcloak thought rapidly. 'The city of heroes… Whiterun is home to the Companions. Is that what you mean?'

The dovah thought it through before replying. 'Aye, Dovahkiin.'

Jon felt warm satisfaction at having worked out Odahviing's riddle, before he realised exactly what this meant. Ulfric was attacking Whiterun! Odahviing had mentioned a Jun, a King. Presumably that meant that he had taken Solitude and so he must be trying to secure his crown! That meant the Legions were destroyed, and Tullius was most likely dead. It shocked Jon. He had never had any love for the Empire, yet to see the end of a war was still a strange moment. _But the war isn't over yet_, he thought. Balgruuf still resisted. Panic gripped Jon; his family was still in Whiterun, to the best of his knowledge. If Ulfric attacked… The younger Stormcloak knew more than enough of war to realise what happened in a sack, and as these thoughts raced through Jon's hahdrim, _mind,_ another came forth. Paarthurnax had mentioned a united world. He had said; _'sometimes you have to forsake family loyalties to do what is best.' _With a feeling of descending dread, Jon realised exactly what he had meant. Paarthurnax had been preparing him for this moment. Preparing him to ensure he made the choice that would most benefit Tamriel as a whole: the 'right' choice.

'I must get to Sotru, _Whiterun!' _

Odahviing looked alarmed by the decision. 'Nii los vomindok. It would be very unwise, Dovahkiin.'

Jon gritted his teeth as he stood, wincing as pain enveloped him. 'Why?' He spat out.

'They are daanik, _doomed. _Even your power will not save them.'

'How then?' He asked, unwillingly to forget his goal.

'Jun Windhelm's numbers are too great. They will overwhelm them. Sotru fen mah.'

'But if they were reinforced?'

'They might survive,' the dragon agreed reluctantly. 'But they will need a strong Kinbok, _Leader_.'

'Zu'u fen Kinbok. _I will lead,' _Jon told him in a rush of determination and courage.

The dragon didn't argue. 'Very well. Where will you find help?'

'Falkreath. Ulfric took it once, but I saved him as he fled. Tullius must have liberated it, and I'm guessing he used the Legions for the bulk of the assault. The Jarl will have his bannermen mostly intact then. I will use them.'

'Fine. I will take you there, Dovahkiin, as a small way of repaying my debt to you and your krongrah, _victory_.'

'I appreciate it.' Jon tried to get onto Odahviing but the pain that issued from his shoulder and side ripped through him.

The dovah noticed it. 'That is a fearsome wound. You should be dead.'

'I'll survive,' he insisted, but Odahviing held back.

'Your mulaag, _strength, _is admirable, but you will not survive the journey.'

'But where would I get help?' He asked, frustrated. And then it came to him.

**'It is truly joyous news** you bring us, Dovahkiin,' Argneir said happily as he sewed the two parts of Jon's flesh together. The wound he had received by Alduin was fearsome. It had ripped his shoulder open and continued down to his hip. Blood and pus leaked out of it, and Jon was beginning to feel faint. Luckily, the Greybeards, overjoyed to hear of his victory, were only too happy to help.  
Each time the needle entered, Jon cried out, and his mind slipped from the vision of Ysold he was trying to sustain. Sweat soaked his brow, and the faaz, _pain_, was immense, but they had cleaned it. Even now the other Greybeards were preparing to wrap it in fresh linen. The treatment soothed him, and slowed his racing heart.

'Done, Dovahkiin.' The other Greybeards began to wrap the wound, quite roughly, their hands not used to caring for others.

'We are not healers,' Argneir told the Jon. 'However, you shouldn't use that arm for at least a month.'

Jon nodded. 'Right. Anything else?'

The wuth, _old, _Greybeard nodded. 'Yes. I know I cannot keep you here, such is your nature, as was your father's, but I wish you good luck. I do hope you save your family.'

The words brought a bitter taste to his mouth. If he was to save his wife and son, he was to fight his Father. There was no middle way, but Jon didn't share his concerns. Instead he nodded and thanked the Greybeards for their help, then left without another word for the hard flight south.

**Falkreath was covered in rain **by the time he and Odahviing finally got there. They landed several miles from the walls to avoid being spotted, hidden by the forest.

'I will leave you here, Dovahkiin. Ven aak hin. _Wind guide you.'_

'Ahrk hin. _And you,' _Jon replied. He stepped back as Odahviing took off, flattening the ground around him. In truth he was sorry to see the dovah go. In a strange way they had made good zeymahzin, _companions_, over a flight of a few days. Odahviing was younger than Paarthurnax and fierier as a result, a disposition that suited Jon more. However Stormcloak knew that no matter what oaths were sworn, dragons were too unpredictable. _Never trust a dovah. _Paarthurnax's words rang in his mind, as he trudged towards the Hold Capital, his shoulder still aching despite the days it had to recover slightly.

The town was desolated by the time Jon arrived near midday. People were inside their houses, and guards watched the walls warily. As Jon approached he was stopped and two guards came over, dressed in the dark blue sash of Falkreath, over mail and a padded jerkin, all of it soaked through.

'What are you doing here?' The lead guard was an older man, perhaps in his forties, with a greying goatee.

'I seek an audience with the Jarl.'

'Commoners do not see the Jarl,' he scoffed. 'Even ones so well dressed as you.' Stormcloak realised that he was still in his skyforge steel armour. He hadn't bothered to change from it.

Jon wasn't sure what to do, before he remembered something. 'You'll let a Thane through though?'

'Aye, but you are no Thane. Now get out my sight and stop wasting my time.'

Jon had to smile, but it came out darker than he intended. 'I am a Thane.' He pulled out his badge of office, which he had taken care to keep with him on his journey for just a moment such as this.

The guard was dumbstruck. He stared at the badge before registering Jon's face. 'Many pardons Thane. I just assumed-'

Jon cut him off. 'Take me to the Jarl.'

'Yes, of course.' He turned and quickly issued orders, trying to make up for his mistake. The gate was opened and Jon was escorted through quickly. From there the guards insisted on leading him through the town until they were outside the longhouse.

The men entered before him to announce his arrival. It was an unusual feeling, but one that Jon was quickly having to adapt to even as he tried to avoid it.

'My Jarl, a Thane of Whiterun is here, sent by Jarl Balgruuf. He requests an audience.'

Jon was surprised to see that he was on a mission from Balgruuf he had never heard of, but decided to use it to his advantage. It was his purpose here, after all in a strange way. He heard the Jarl give his consent, and on that word he strode in, his silvery mail damaged by his recent grah, _battle_, with Alduin, and soaked with droplets of water. Kodaav hung at his side, and Jon suspected he presented a fearsome figure, with his new beard and grim face, scarred by Alduin.

The Jarl was sitting on his throne, surrounded by his court. Jon noticed one or two other Thanes standing near him, and a Steward, as well as his Housecarl. They would likely influence the Jarl's decisions, but for good or ill, Jon couldn't tell yet.

'My Jarl,' he began, playing along with their ideals of him; 'I have been sent by Jarl Balgruuf to request your aid, against Ulfric Stormcloak.'

This news elicited several low gasps from the court, but the Jarl's face kept its mocking smile. Jon decided that he disliked him almost immediately.

The Jarl looked around at his court before speaking, in a slimy tone. 'Balgruuf of Whiterun, asking for my help. This is unheard of. Who did he send? A Thane that was attacked by Ulfric on his way out, or by one of our fearsome guards as he tried to enter? Which is it?'

Jon kept silent, his anger boiling up. Clearly the Jarl expected a response to his mocking reception. He decided to play along, but not as humbly as he might have before. 'Aye, my Jarl. I have fought in battles, a feeling I am sure you are most novice in. As for my Jarl, Balgruuf most humbly seeks your aid.' _Balgruuf will have my hide if he hears me saying this. _

Falkreath eyes flashed with rahgot, _anger,_ but his pride seemed pleased by Balgruuf's plead enough to ignore the earlier comment. 'Yes, I would like to help him, but there is problem.'

'And that is?' Jon asked.

The Jarl looked annoyed at having been interrupted, but he replied anyway. 'Stormcloak! He controls half of Skyrim. He's already killed Tullius, and I…' he beckoned to one of his men; 'have already received his message.' He took the letter from the Steward and began to read. 'Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim,' he looked over the letter at Jon as he read this, 'requests my pledge of allegiance. I am to swear him fealty.' He put the letter away. 'So you see, my loyalty is already tied up.'

'But it's not though, is it?' Jon guessed, trying to ignore the feelings of panic that had started to emerge from within himself at the arrival of the letter. 'You support the Empire, as does Balgruuf,' he improvised. 'Why would you bend the knee to Stormcloak?'

'He won it, on the point of the sword.' The Jarl answered coldly.

'Yes, but he will not expect you to rebel. Go his meeting, with an army. Take him by surprise and reinforce Balgruuf. The Jarl of Markarth will likely join you if you ask him to.'

'What do you know of Skyrim politics, Thane? They are tricky. Many men are false.'

'Then how can you be sure Ulfric's men support him.'

'They are the "Stormcloaks": his own men!'

'But the bulk of them aren't. They are the eastern Jarl's bannermen. Who's to say they will support him to the end.'

'It doesn't matter, Thane. You forget your place. I will not be argued with.' He leaned forward, his face angry. 'Ulfric wants me to pay allegiance to a Stormcloak? Fine, I will. You have no decision in the matter.'

'Where is your Nordic spirit?' Jon shouted angrily, his ruth, _rage, _flying out of his control. He saw the court look uncomfortable at this, and he appealed to it. 'We are Nords! We fight for our beliefs? Why else do you think Ulfric is so inspiring?' He looked around at them all, imploring them to listen. 'Because he fights for his own dreams! He believes something, and he fights for it. You believe in a united Tamriel with all the vigour of Ulfric, yet you will not fight for it? Why? Have we Nords descended so low that we will not raise ourselves when one of us with a little ambition will climb to the top of the pile and scream triumph? You are a Jarl! You guard us and protect us, but most importantly you fight for us! If you will not do it, then let me lead them. Let me rise against Ulfric as a true Nord, unsullied by fear or doubt.'

'By what right?' The Jarl interrupted, drawing out the word, low and cold, but not quite damning. It was hopeful, Jon realised. There was only one way to become the leader Ulfric is. There was only one right that Jon had that could draw men to him.

'Because I am his son.'

**AND BANG! Next chapter is another split POV. And the battle will begin with that one basically. **


	60. A Clash of Blood

**Okay, here we go. The battle is not quite beginning yet, but I have a (I think) interesting chapter next and then the battle does start! That said, we aren't going to leave Whiterun now. All the action is right here. Also, I should tell you that I'm going to be doing some work for a week, staring Monday. Chapters will still come out, but probably slightly slower so, yeah, just so you know. **

**The thanks: To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review. BDLG sniffs the air and proclaims: hopefully the coming battle will get me lots of new reviews. (Just kidding). Thanks for the comments. They made me laugh. To ejthepinoy, thanks for the review. I know you're pleased with how things are turning out. As for becoming a legionnaire, well there's a line. This is Skyrim's war now: that means a cool new hierarchy I need to explain with Thanes, Carls and now, a High King! But that's next chapter. Also, thanks for the follower, story follower, favourite and story favourite! To HereLies, thanks for the review! You're comments about Jon were great and as for how far he's preparing to go, I say it always, you'll see! To JakMar, thanks for the review! Like I said, I know you're a little 'I hate Imperials' but things are not as black and white as it may seem. And the Empire is the best way. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I can't say anything about Jon though; that would be revealing spoilers. To DraGG, thanks for the review. Good luck with the work! To Foacir, welcome back! Thanks for the review, and don't fret the 'absence'. It is your choice to post a review; it would be unfair to expect it. But, you know, thanks anyway. I'm really glad you like the timing, the shock of the decisions and everything. I can say that Season Unending will not leave a cliff-hanger. It will end, unlike a Nick Hornby book. Thanks to Jasmine R. Evans for the story follower! To General77, I wasn't actually thinking you were annoyed with me. Don't worry. Thanks for the review though! **

**Let the battles begin…**

**High King Ulfric Stormcloak **

_**Whiterun is going to be hard **__to siege_, High King Ulfric Stormcloak reflected as he scanned the defences of the massive city. It was built on a hill, and each district was surrounded by a wall with full gates on each level of the landscape. In addition a sturdy stone wall surrounded the entire city in addition, mounted with catapults at regular intervals. The only realistic option of attack was through the main gate, but to reach that the sons of Skyrim would have to make their way past an outer gate, and the over a drawbridge as the path spiralled up the hill, all the time subjected to intense enemy fire. With a heavy heart Ulfric realised that it was going to be a bloody siege no matter what he did. But with the defeat of the Balgruuf, the other Jarls would fall into line easily enough.

The King turned his horse and trotted back into the centre of his massive encampment. Ulfric made his way past the ditch and palisade that protected the army from a surprise attack, set up by Galmar and patrolled by their best men, and into the heart of the war camp.

As Ulfric and Carl Galmar, who followed behind him as his Housecarl, passed Nords playing dice or maintaining their weapons, they called out greeting to their King and he returned them. Ulfric had spent enough time as a commander to know that whatever your rank, it paid to greet the men and inspire them. That way, they would fight for you with their hearts when the time came.

Ever since his victory at Solitude the men had started to refer to him as 'Talos Reborn'. It had annoyed Ulfric a little, as he was fighting for Talos, and Alea, not himself. He was a soldier, first and foremost, whatever he may have done in the past. Nonetheless he would be lying if he said he didn't secretly enjoy it. But then he thought of Alea, and what she would say about it… The King gritted his teeth to the callings of Talos around him.

Ulfric Stormcloak dismounted outside his tent and strode in to be greeted by his Captains, Thanes and the other Jarls. He had called a meeting to discuss matters of state, on the assumption that he would capture Whiterun, which was almost a certainty. Ulfric sat in his throne and looked around at them. In truth his seat was little more than an elaborate wooden chair, but he was on the march; he could spare little time for excessive luxury.

They started almost immediately. The Jarl and Captains were sat at a long, rough cut table, with Ulfric at its head. The King waved a hand and a man brought forward a sheaf of parchment. Ulfric read from it;

'First, we have the matter of succession to discuss. By my power as High King I hereby disown Balgruuf Wind-Shifter and all his descendents from holding the title of Jarl of Whiterun. I pronounce them rebels.' The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he continued. 'Who will become the new Jarl of Whiterun on his defeat?'

Carl Harrald Law-Giver, the Heir of the Jarl of Riften, had arrived five days ago with her bannermen. He spoke now: 'You should choose a Thane of Whiterun.'

Ulfric nodded. 'True, but there is a problem. They are all in there with Balgruuf. which makes them traitors.'

'Save the Vignar Gray-Mane. He remained at his seat.' (That is, his town. The place his Thaneship derives from, such as Ulfric and Windhelm.)

'I will not tolerate a coward as a Jarl,' Ulfric said angrily. 'If he wants to take a side, he should take it!'

'I agree, Your Grace, but they will follow no one else,' Law-Giver reasoned.

'It is true,' Galmar agreed reluctantly, from his place on Ulfric's right.

The King thought it over for a minute before he looked up. 'Fine, I will put Gray-Mane on the throne, but I will expect his loyalty,' he remarked to no one in particular.

'And now the matter of Jarl Falkreath?' Galmar suggested.

'Yes. When is he arriving?'

'Scouts report in a few days.'

'Good; it's about time as well.'

'Your Grace?' Ulfric looked round. It was Jarl Skald Dawn, called 'the Elder'. He was a tough, weathered man with a hard bitten face, a lazy eye, and a paranoid nature.

'Have you ever considered a betrayal by Siddgeir? The boy is an Imperial to his roots, mark my words.'

Ulfric laughed. 'Siddgeir fighting me? The boy left his spine back with his mother.' Stormcloak smiled reassuringly at the outraged Skald. 'He will not try anything; what they need is a strong leader, but in the Imperial's ranks I'm afraid those are in short order.'

Skald didn't look satisfied, but he didn't say anything else. Before they could move on, one of Ulfric's own Thanes started speaking. It was Tor Blackmoore, the Lord of Jarl's Head. He was a cold man, or at least that was how Ulfric perceived him. He rarely spoke in meetings, except to ask valuable questions, or deliver important news.

'Where is Korir, the Jarl of Winterhold?' He asked, quietly.

The King was thrown off guard, but he quickly turned his puzzlement into a face of feigned interest. 'I haven't seen him.'

'Has he sent any messages yet?'

The Thane's insistent questioning was annoying Ulfric. 'Aye, he ahs sent messages. He is a true Nord; he will come here soon enough.'

Tor could obviously tell that his liege lord was not in the mood to be questioned further, so he didn't say anything else, instead returning to his cold silence.

'Now, my Lords,' Ulfric continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, 'it is time to discuss the coming battle.'

The Jarls and Thanes immediately raised themselves, and starting shouting out at once, but Ulfric silenced them quickly.

'I have decided that Jarl Skald will leave the western attack.' The Lord of Dawnstar started yammering his thanks, but Ulfric cut him off. 'Carl Galmar Stone-Fist will lead the eastern. I will take command of the frontal personally. Carl Harrald, you will stay with me. The Thanes will act as battle commanders, in addition to my own Captains. I want my bannermen and the Stormcloaks with me. Galmar you will take Law-Giver's men, and you, Skald, will command your own men.'

Galmar waited for Ulfric to finish before he started addressing the actual attack itself: 'May I suggest we use a bombardment techni-' The Carl was cut off by the sound of rushing feet and shouting, before a messenger burst into the tent.

'Your Grace,' he inclined his head to Ulfric, 'my Jarls and Thanes; Balgruuf of Whiterun is attacking.'

Stormcloak got up from his throne. 'You're sure?' The Nord nodded. 'Then we have him. Just like a cornered rat,' Ulfric finished, satisfied and jubilant.

Galmar spoke up. 'Your Grace, it could be a-'

Ulfric waved him away and strode from the tent bellowing orders. 'To you positions, Jarls. Go now!'

He looked around proudly as men quickly rushed to form their battle positions, buckling on armour and weapons as they did. The banners of Windhelm, Dawnstar and Riften flew up, and they snapped in the wind, displaying their intent proudly. Different emblems raced around him, the shifting colours of the Thane's men and the Jarls. The King shouted encouragement as they ran past him to battle.

Ulfric pulled himself onto his readied horse and scanned the city for any sign of the approaching army. Then he saw it, a long line of golden tunics and shining steel. Snow began to fall as Ulfric licked his lips and the armies began to meet.

**Ysold **

**Ysold walked through the doors** into the war room. The Jarl was there with his Housecarl, so she curtsied neatly before turning her attention to the new man who stood next to him. He was dressed in a rough shirt with high boots, and a long brown coat, but she ignored that when she recognised his face. He was the Nord that Jon had sent to deliver that message all those long months ago. He had seemed polite enough at the time, but now he looked tired and tried. Even so, the sight of him raised her spirits. Perhaps he had more news of Jon: it had been at least a month since Ysold had last seen him and she was worried, despite the impression she had left with him on his departure  
Ysold felt terrible for how she had treated him at the time. It was true that he had changed, but was it really his fault? Jon ahd tried to remain the same man, but it hadn't worked. That said, he had been through severe trials on his journey to return, and yetshe hadn't even made the effort to try and work past it. But she took a breath and expelled these thoughts. Her mistakes were in the past now, so instead she waited desperately for the chance to redeem herself on his return.  
All these thoughts whirled through in seconds and she returned her attention to the travel-worn Nord. The Jarl was introducing him.  
'Lady Ysold, this is Ralof of Riverwood. Ralof, she is the wife of Thane Jon Dragonborn.'  
The Nord, Ralof, spoke up, trying to cut off the Jarl politely. 'Yes, my Lord, I know. We've met.' He addressed Ysold. '_My Lady_ is it now? Indeed your husband is remarkable.'  
'Yes, he is,' she reflected forlornly.  
Ralof sensed her discomfit and gave her an easy smile. 'Jon's a tough bugger. He'll be fine.'  
The Jarl nodded in silent agreement, before turning his attention to Ysold herself, his words courteous, yet underneath them there was a hint of steel. 'Lady Ysold, what is your purpose here?'  
She was surprised to have been asked, as this had become such a daily ritual, but she couldn't refuse a Jarl's question even if it was stupid to her ears. 'I wondered if you had any news of my husband?' She asked tentatively.

'No, my Lady, we haven't. Ralof here knows nothing,' he added, confirming Ysold's own fears.

'No matter, my Jarl. I am sorry for having wasted your time.' She was about to turn away when a warhorn blazed through the air of the room, stilling them.

'The devil…?' Jarl Wind-Shifter cursed in surprise, moving forward. Ralof gave her a quick, uncertain glance before following the Jarl, who was hurriedly making his way outside.

They burst from the doors of Dragonsreach, Ysold following, and looked down on the plains in front of the city. The Palace gave them a good view, and with keen eyes, a Nord could see everything that was happening below. The armies however, needed no help in being seen. As she watched, the Jarl's vastly outnumbered army started moving towards Ulfric's. Beside her Wind-Shifter was cursing and bellowing, damning his Captains and Thanes. Obviously he had no knowledge of this, and with a sudden shock, she realised that if they lost now the city would fall. She might never see Jon again.

Ysold wanted to run and find Alsfur, but she was transfixed by the sighte, unable to move. Ralof was looking like someone who had just been bathed in icy water; he was pale and dazed, staring wide eyed at the coming battle in horror. The Jarl was gripping the rail in anger, before he started moving down the steps, drawing his sword, his Housecarl close behind.

'Wait, my Jarl!' Ralof called. Wind-Shifter came back up, his steel still naked. The sight made Ysold uneasy, but she turned her attention to what the other Nord had seen and caught her breath; it was another army racing towards Ulfric's. Above it was raised the banner of Falkreath.

'Ha! Gods praise the boy,' the Jarl shouted in delight, all ceremony put aside.

Ralof put a hand on his shoulder, stilling him in an unusual interaction between serf and Jarl. 'My Jarl, it's not, Siddgeir.'

A thu'um erupted across the field. Blue light flashed and fire leapt into the enemy ranks. _Jon! _Delight coursed through Ysold, and left her invigorated, drunk on happiness. She looked at her company, and Ralof returned her delighted smile. The Jarl, however, had turned his attention back to the battle.

'They're retreating,' his Housecarl said shortly.

Ysold looked to see what she meant; the Carl was right, but not as she had originally expected.

Jon's forces had swung around the Stormcloaks to the west, joining with the army of Whiterun to form a united front. The Stormcloaks were rallying and pushing back Jon's men and the Jarl's, using their combined strength to try and overwhelm the defending armies. Whiterun and Falkreath were retreating, in an orderly fashion, back into the city. The vanguard beat off a half-hearted attack and then they were pouring into the city. Without another thought Ysold raced down the steps, Ralof and the Jarl close behind.

She reached the gate to the Cloud District, where Dragonsreach was located, as he came through them: Jon, mounted on a huge horse, his armour glittering. By his side was his sword, and a cracked shield, painted most unusually with the design of Eastmarch on it.

He looked down at her, his face happy, but heavily worn before he dropped off his horse and into her arms, utterly exhausted. She held him on the ground, spilling tears of joy onto his chest as he looked up at her.

'Please forgive me.'

'Oh, I do, Jon. I do!' She smiled, still crying and he leaned in close.

'Then I have so much to tell you.'

**There we go. Please review. **


	61. The Calm Before The Storm

**Okay guys! Sorry for the wait. The job went really well by the way. Anyway, back to the story. **

**Okay, in this one I feel I should address how my rank system goes. Here it is: In Skyrim there is the: High King- High Prince (or Princess)-Jarl- Thegn (Jarl's Heir, though 'Carl' is actually better and the title taken on by most Heirs if they achieve it)- Thane (Minor Lord- bannermen to the Jarl)- Carl (The Skyrim Knighthood)- Commoner. Also, I should also tell you that in my rank system there is no male primogeniture in regard to the Thanes and Jarls, so a female could become the Head of the Clan, however for the King there is. That said, you'll also find most Nords (in my story, no sexism in real life) respect a Male Warrior Leader (what with their culture and all.) Bastards come before uncles, blood related half-brothers come before them and true blooded children come before all. If a man is the spouse of a female Thane or Jarl, they get no title unless they earn a Carlhood, whereas the female spouses of Jarls and Thanes gain the title 'Lady', and act as the Master of the House (aka the affairs). So you can see which way the society is trying to align the places. I only have the no male first thing because that's how it is in the game itself.) Also, if two Thanes with ancient lines marry, the elder gets the richer estate, tasking on that Clan name, while the second child (assuming they have one) gets the other estate and name. Otherwise, you the nothing normally. The more powerful name (for example Stormcloak against Shatter-Shield) takes precedence. (There you go. Just thought it might be useful to know.**

**Okay, sorry about the lack of PM messages (very little time) so I'll thank you now and return to the normally format later. Here we go (this will be long)- To ejthepinoy, thanks for the review! I'm really glad you like the chapter and I love the 'Long Live Jon Stormcloak!' bit. Cool. To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review. I'm not actually going to show the conversation but I have included a conversation which explains a few things at the start of this chapter! To JakMar, thanks for the review. You're pretty lucky as most of the things you asked for are happening. By the way, I HATE the Thalmor. Don't worry, they will never be good guys. Ever… The Black and whiteness will reveal itself as time goes on. This chapter touches on it, but it will become more apparent. To HereLies, thanks for the review. It's great as always, but don't worry. Harrald is still a jerk, just not to Ulfric. I'm really glad you picked up on all the unknowns and you liked Thane Blackmoore (wink, wink). I'm also really pleased you picked up on Paarthurnax's prophecy. That said, they will have more meaning later. Also, yep Ralof is back and he has a chapter which I like, so I'll see what you think. As for Ysold and Jon, there is a really great moment coming up that is not bad, but a little sad, and it is AWESOME! To Jasmine R. Evans, thanks for the favourite story and the review! Yep, I wish we could have more interaction with the characters, especially those you want to build a friendship up with, such as Ralof or Hadvar. I wish you could take them out for a drink. Keep on playing! To Foacir, thanks for the review. Things are about to slow down, but to say they are rushed is a big extreme I think. As for the estimate, I'll include one in the next chapter when the battle begins. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! I'd love to have 1,000 reviews one day, but it seems a little unlikely. Thanks though and Jon and Ysold will (have) talked. To DraGG, thanks for the review. I love the fact that you liked Ulfric's caviar nature at the start. Ulfric, it's anything but over… To General77, ha ha! That was a fun review to read. The cliff angers are bitches but seriously, in the final story they will kill you, 'cause I'm not providing any rope, and the falls are VERY high. For all the characters. To Mega Kilo 69, thanks for the story follower, story favourite, favourite, and review. Cool, I've never been worshiped as a God, so Demi-God will do brilliantly! Glad you like it. If I had written this first, then I think it might have done better (not just being a plot redo, even though it's doing well enough!). Sorry about the embassy, but I was debating it and in the end I didn't do it. I've actually scrapped loads of chapters, so there you go. There will be a chapter like it though in the next one, probably. Also, thanks for all the reviews. It was funny to read 'Please kill her, painfully' and know that right around the corner was DEATH!' So, yeah, cool. I also liked the funny arrow comment on Darien's death. Nice one. To RaptorZeroOne, thanks for the review. And nice excuse. To Daicha, thanks for the story favourite, favourite, follower and story follower. To DragonXander, thanks for the review. I read my stuff through and I appreciate the offer, but I already have an editor. HereLies edits after mostly and sometimes before when I send her stuff. (By the way, you're a brilliant editor HL). I'm kind of too independent and proud to let people read all my stuff beforehand, even though the typos are seriously strong on my computer. Also, thanks for the story follower, favourite, follower and story favourite! **

**Ok that's it. I really appreciate the support! **

**Oh, and also I like nice relationships (even though I'm a guy, and I'm not gay) so I've patched things up. For Ysold and Jon. Ulfric and Jon, er… shit. **

**Also, I put in this start bit for Ysold because you guys asked. Normally, I wouldn't have. It would have started with Ralof, but hey, I don't mind. Also, what do you think of the new picture. The entire trilogy will have similar picture designs. Hope they're good. **

**Ysold Stormcloak **

**Ysold Stormcloak woke up next **to her husband, refreshed and happy. She looked over Jon to see light trying to push through the curtains of their apartments. It was nearly midday, but he was still asleep. After everything he had told her, Ysold wasn't surprised. His truths had come as shocks, but true to her word she had handled them; and now, on the next day, she realised that rather than unpleasant surprises these were actually strokes of luck or types strange good fortune. For example, Jon's newfound Father meant that he was technically in line for the throne of Windhelm, even if it was still to be discussed properly, it was possible.

That particular piece of news had thrown Ysold off. It wasn't the shock of the surprise, more her reaction to it. She actually _liked_ it. Every time she thought about it she imagined herself as Lady of Windhelm, and it was an exciting prospect. Ysold knew she would have to be careful, or risk losing herself, but it was something that made her hark back to her days as a girl and the games of fantasy and dragons that she had played. _Looking back at it, all those things have happened. I've seen dragons, I am now a Thane's Lady and I have a shining knight, who actually slays evil monsters_. Seeing it in that light, and noting all the impressive advantages of Jon's adventures on his family, made it much easier to except. For that she was glad, because it meant that she could now take Jon as he was now, and forget and part of her that still clung to the past.

As she stared out the window, deep in thought, Jon started to wake, his handsome (she thought, thought others might disagree) face starting to scrunch up with the starts of consciousness. In truth, he was a mess. _But he's my mess!_ Jon was severely battered. His face had taken on a collection of new bruises, and a new scar; a small one just above his eye. He still had the massive, jagged wound that reached across his face; a souvenir for Alduin (Alduin!) but his body was in better shape. She had had ample time to investigate it yesterday night.

The only thing that troubled her was the awful wound that covered Jon's side. Not for her own sake, she wasn't that selfish, but for her husband's. It was fearsome, and even with all of his strength Ysold couldn't help but wonder how he had managed to survive it, and whether it was going to affect him in later life.

'Hello beautiful.' Jon was awake.

Ysold leaned down to kiss him and he pulled her closer. She positioned herself onto him, and started to arch down before Jon let out shout. He almost threw her off and she noticed that in her excitement, one of her legs had pushed against Jon's wound. He gritted his teeth and breathed deeply before reaching for her again.

'I'm sorry.'

Ysold's face softened from her affronted look. 'No, it's fine. I'll just have to look after you until you're better.'

Jon looked a little pained. 'It should be healed by now. Alduin wounded me over a month ago.'

'Maybe his strikes carried some poison?' She suggested tenderly, as she traced it lightly. 'And you never gave it time to heal, as you were so preoccupied with your White Knight act, and saving Whiterun.'

Jon looked out of the window, in that sombre way of his. 'It's not over yet though.'

Ysold followed his gaze. 'No, it's not.' Ulfric's armies were still out there. They were set to be reinforced by Jarl Korir of Winterhold's own bannermen eventually, though she had no idea when this would happen, as only his current allegiance actually dictated his path. Everything else was unsure. Even Jarl Balgruuf's own allies in the East…

They lay together in companionable silence before she asked the question that had been plaguing her mind.

'Are you going to fight?'

Jon looked at Ysold, his face hard and gloomy as always, but his eyes always revealed his emotions to her.

'You don't want to, do you, but you have to?' She guessed.

Jon nodded and smiled gently. 'I don't want to fight my Father.'

'Ulfric is not your Father.'

'Then who is?'

'No one, Jon. I hate to say this, but you have no Father. No true one anyway.'

His face became hard, but Ysold stood her ground. She knew that she had echoed the thoughts that he had repressed and given them, and subsequently Jon, the strength needed to fight his own kin. 'You have a family. Alsfur and me. Isn't that enough?'

Jon was silent as he stared out of the window, before he turned and looked at her. 'Aye, you are enough. But it doesn't make it any easier.'

'It will never be easy. Alduin prepared you for that. But while we are together, which we will always be, I will stand by you, no matter what.'

Jon regarded her carefully, before smiling a little. 'I think you will.'

Ysold snorted. 'Of course I will. Though you know, in truth, I'm only in it for the titles and power. You're useless without them.'

That made Jon smile properly.

**Ralof, of Riverwood**

**Ralof of Riverwood stood outside **Dragonsreach, surveying Ulfric's army and musing. It was bigger than any he had ever seen, but then the other milk drinker Jarls hadn't bothered to show up for the Battle of Solitude, save Skald. That said, the old Jarl was slightly delusional; stick Talos' name in front of a cause and he'd be the first to sign up.

In truth though, Ralof was unsure as to how they were actually supposed to defeat Ulfric's army. He was hoping that Jon had some 'call the dragons' power, but he wasn't holding out too much hope on being so lucky.

The Nord turned back and headed inside the palace proper. Around him the air was quiet, but tense. Nords moved around in mail and light plate, with axes and swords strapped to their sides. Ralof himself carried no weapon; he hadn't been given one by Balgruuf, nor was he allowed one. The Jarl was still dubious as to his true loyalties, so he had to make do without one. Fortunately, he was considered an 'inside expert' for the Stormcloak army, and this somewhat dubious title allowed him to enter the council meetings and participate, which was something, he supposed.

Ralof was actually heading to a council meeting now, deep in thought about the coming battle. Naturally he lacked the selfless bravery of Jon or Ulfric, and this fear was further compounded by the fact that he would now have to fight his former allies. It didn't feel right to Ralof, and it sent shivers up his spine.

The council of war was to be conducted in the war room, above the main hall. Ralof managed to get up the stairs easily, but he was stopped at the top by a guard.

'An important council is to be held here. Only the Jarl and his Captain's are permitted entrance.'

Riverwood was considering how exactly he was going to make his way past when a voice called out, and the guard moved to let him pass. It was Jarl Balgruuf.

'Riverwood.' He looked visibly disappointed by his arrival, and angry. The Jarl turned away without saying anymore but Ralof was used to it, so he made his way in, watched by the Nords there.

'Riverwood!' It was Siddgeir, who was among them. 'You're the one who assaulted me inside my cell!' He turned to Jarl Wind-Shifter. 'What is he doing here?'

'You were inside a cell?' Balgruuf asked, his eyebrows raised.

'Well…'

'Don't worry, my Jarl. When I surrender we can share a cell together,' Ralof assured Siddgeir.

The Falkreath Jarl exploded in anger. 'He insults my honour!'

'Oh, calm down, Sid. We all know he's right.' Balgruuf seemed to have warmed to Ralof quite suddenly.

'But, I-'

'Save your jabbering for when you're captured.'

The Jarl fell silent, his eyes locked angrily on Ralof, who replied with a grin and small wave. _If we survive I'm not going to survive shit, _he thought quietly.

Ralof took the brief quiet as a chance to look around. The council was composed of hard men, and then Jarl Siddgeir. One of the Nords at the council consisted of the Harbinger of the Companions, Kodlak of Clan Whitemane, and a warrior of great renown. To see them as part of the defence lifted Ralof's spirits immensely. Also of note was Carl Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf's Housecarl, the men of Clan Battle-Born, Carl Helvard, Siddgeir's Housecarl, and Jon, among other Thanes.

When Jon had announced his heritage to Balgruuf yesterday, it had spread throughout the city like wildfire. The Falkreath armies had already known and had accepted this fact wholeheartedly. They referred to him as Jarl Stormcloak, though this was untrue, and sang his praises every time Ralof passed a group of them. That said, there were those who doubted and refused to follow him, but they seemed to have little effect on the general army as a whole, such was the size of his supporters.

This was the first time they had gathered together properly since Jon's arrival yesterday. Ralof expected contention to the name, so he wasn't surprised when a sandy haired Nord stepped forward (there were no chairs) and pointed a finger at Jon, in an accusing position.

'Who are you to claim presence at this council!' It wasn't a question, more an accusation.

Jon turned his crackling eyes onto the man, who stared back defiantly. The big Nord was leaning on his wife, the Lady Ysold, heavily. His legs looked weak and near him was his son, bearing a beautifully crafted, but old, sword.

He regarded the man carefully before speaking, his voice somewhat cracked. 'Mey Bron. I saved your life with my body. I spent my strength to protect this world. I ripped my soul apart to struggle through the God's trials, for some ungrateful Captain who challenges my proven word.' Jon was visibly shaking with anger. Lady Ysold soothed him gently, but his eyes never left the Nord Captain, who looked uncomfortable now.

'What do you mean "proven"?' Jarl Balgruuf asked, his palms spread on the table and his eyes guarded.

To Ralof's surprise it was Siddgeir who spoke, his voice quiet. 'I had my Court Wizard investigate his blood when he brought this claim to us. If he was Stormcloak he claimed that the ancient Nede blood would be present.' The Falkreath Jarl looked like he had swallowed shit when he said the next line. 'It was there. That, and his previous actions…' he swallowed; 'leave me no choice but to accept his own story.'

Ralof listened in stunned silence before looking at Jon. He could certainly see the Stormcloak features etched across his face. That, and Riverwood didn't doubt his honour.

'Then he is a bastard,' the Nord who had first challenged Jon insisted.

'NO!' Jarl Balgruuf was speaking now, and anger covered his face. 'This is the Dragonborn! We owe him a debt that cannot be paid, **but** I for one will attempt to. Jon Stormcloak, you have my blessing to take on the names and privileges that accompany acceptance into such an old Clan. I can think of no one better to ensure its succession, or as a member of its bloodline.'

Most of the true Nords, those who believed of, and respected, his defeat over Alduin began to agree and pay their respects to Jon's new family name. Only Siddgeir and the sandy-haired Nord looked tight as they accepted his claim, despite the now obvious proof. Ralof merely nodded at Jon, a small smile playing on his lips, but Stormcloak hardly looked at him.

'And now,' Jarl Balgruuf continued, 'I don't see any point in investigating the matter further. He will win the name on the field or die trying. I want to make it clear that we accept that as Ulfric's only known son, and most likely his eldest in any case, Jon is the Heir to Windhelm, and in these present circumstances, the new Jarl of Windhelm, seeing as his blood Father is a rebel who had his titles stripped when he raised his banners. That is agreeable?'

Ralof thought he was talking to his Captain's and Thanes again, but even as he did, another Nord stepped forward. He was about Riverwood's own age, with long, brown hair and a thin face, ending in a strong chin. His green eyes swept the room with a slightly nervous air, but they held some steel. It was Hadvar.

Ralof was shocked with his appearance, and a little angry. His arrival made Riverwood remember _exactly _who he was actually fighting for now, and it wasn't a pleasant awakening.

'Tribune Hadvar of Riverwood, what does the Empire say on this matter?'

Ralof noticed that the young Nord was twisting a ring on this finger as he spoke, most likely some kind of Imperial ring. 'The Emperor will approve of this choice I do not doubt.' He inclined his head to Jon. 'You are a most welcome ally, Jon Stormcloak.'

The Nord bowed head in return before returning to his previous pose, his face tight with suppressed pain.

'Right, good.' Jarl Balgruuf took control of the situation again. 'Now, let us turn our attention to the matters of siege warfare. We have Whiterun defended on each side, with watchers set to the north, but I shouldn't imagine that Ulfric would attempt to climb the mountain. As this is my city, I want full command of the forces garrisoned here.'

'Why shouldn't I take charge?' Siddgeir burst out, stepping forward.

At this, Kodlak Whitemane stepped forward. 'Because you are a selfish, greedy little boy who couldn't command his own arse to spill his shit over the floor.' He stepped back, his point made in a brutal, merciless fashion.

The Nords began to chuckle, while Siddgeir blushed and stepped back. Ralof noticed that Jon made no attempt to step forward either. Perhaps that was wise; Jarl Balgruuf could be a bugger, but his skill in commanding men was not in doubt by anyone… save Siddgeir perhaps. Ralof chuckled to himself quietly, which earned him a furious stare from the Stuhn.

'My Jarls, Thanes and Captains, now we have to discuss who will take command of the East, West, North and South.' He looked around. 'Oh, now you're quiet. I need volunteers.'

'I'll take the North,' Siddgeir jumped in. Ralof snorted his contempt. The North was an easy position. The Jarl had already said that Ulfric wouldn't attack it.

'I'll take wherever Galmar Stone-Fist is,' Kodlak said, standing proudly. 'I want to see that bastard's head on the end of mine sword.'

Balgruuf nodded. 'I can think of nobody better to kill him. I will take the main gate-'

'No.' The Nords looked round to see Jon step forward, his body stiff and tense. 'I will take the gate. It will be assaulted by my Father himself, and who better to fight Stormcloak than Stormcloak?'

Balgruuf looked obviously disgruntled as Jon took his honourable position. 'Yes, fine, Stormcloak. You can have the main gate.' It seemed no one was yet ready to argue with 'The Dragonborn'.

'You are wounded though, Thegn Stormcloak.' Hadvar was speaking, and to Ralof's surprise, addressing Jon with the title 'Thegn' which identified someone as the Heir to a Jarldom. _I wouldn't have expected the Empire to bend so easily- Wait, no it was the other way around. Ah, now it makes complete sense. Of course the Empire would bend easily._ Focusing on the words though, Riverwood half agreed with what the other Nord said; despite Jon's obvious strength, the younger Stormcloak didn't look fit to lead, yet his facial expression showed otherwise. Hadvar backed down gracefully and the Jarl continued.

The rest of the meeting was just a discussion of tactics, which bored Ralof. He had no talent with them, nor any enthusiasm. Jon's face stayed impassive, but his eyes danced with annoyance. When Jarl Balgruuf finally called the council to an end, Jon made his way swiftly from the room, leaning heavily on Lady Ysold. His son followed them, still bearing his massive sword. Ralof ran after the family, shoving his way through the men and knocking Siddgeir over in the process (no one helped the Nord up), before he finally caught them outside the hall near their apartments.

Jon didn't look surprised to see him, but he stayed silent, leaving his wife to speak for him.

'Ralof of Riverwood. It is good to see you again. Are you well?'

'Quite, my lady.' She blushed with the use of the title. 'And you,' he fumbled with the name;' Alsfur; you'll be as big as your Father one day, and use that sword to chop off heads!' The boy smiled happily, but Jon remained silent, watching him carefully.

'Why are you here, Ralof?' His tone was matter-of-fact, and blunt. It surprised the other Nord.

'Are you not happy to see me?'

'I never thought you would fight for the Imperials. What about your oaths?' His voice was steel, and now Ralof recognised why he was so cold.

'Oaths…' he started heavily; 'are hard to keep for a man who does not recognise friend, nor foe anymore. Not even his own loyal bannermen.'

Jon nodded, as if he had been expecting this answer. _He is surprisingly understanding,_ Ralof thought.

'How is he now?' Jon asked.

'Does it matter?' Stormcloak's face said otherwise and Ralof rubbed his face wearily. 'Ulfric is hardly the same man. He is caught up in an unreachable obsession. I had to leave.'

'And fight for the Imperials?'

'I don't fight for the Empire,' Ralof said tightly. His hatred for it hadn't lessened with his change of allegiance.

To his surprise, Jon smiled. 'No, neither do I. But I am not one to step down when Skyrim needs a leader.'

'Who taught you that shit?' Ralof said, somewhat sarcastically.

Jon laughed, a great booming sound like Ulfric's. 'I don't know; Alduin I suppose.'

Ralof grinned. 'How did the old dragon die in the end anyway?'

'Kicking and screaming.'

They laughed, leaving his wife and son looking on uncertainly.

Jon stifled his laughter and looked around at his family, his mask of gloom broken, before turning his attention back to Ralof. 'It is good to see you again, my friend.'

'And you.' They locked arms; Jon was not capable of anymore. 'So, you are a Jarl now! What does that leave me as?' He asked, in a happy, joking tone.

Jon looked at Ralof intensely, a smile hidden in his eyes. 'What do you want to be?'

Riverwood was surprised to be asked. 'I don't know.' he thought carefully, and realised he knew exactly what he wanted to be. It was crazy, but he had to try. 'I failed one Stormcloak. I cannot save the Father, but I will save the son. Please, I must fight with you,' he admitted, his words true.

Jon's face was serious in an instant, and his eyes were locked on Ralof's own, boring into his soul. 'You want to hold your oath, through me?'

'I must, or I cannot go on.' And he couldn't. Given this brief chance to fulfil his promise to Clan Stormcloak, Ralof had to now.

'Then kneel.'

Shock enveloped Riverwood. Dumbly, and without thought he knelt. Jon beckoned Alsfur over and with his right hand, drew his sword, stepping forward alone. 'Then, Ralof of Riverwood, son of Hadden, I bid you take an oath to me, Jon of Clan Stormcloak, son of Ulfric and Heir to Windhelm. You will swear to protect me and my sires with your blood, body and soul.'

Ralof was lost for words, but he managed to choke out some. 'I swear it.'

'Then rise, as Carl Ralof of Riverwood, Housecarl to Jon of Clan Stormcloak, and protector of the blood of the Nede. Rise, my friend, and breathe in the new air.'


	62. The Trappings of War

**Here we go. Done.**

**The thanks! To General77, thanks for the review! Yeah, and by the way, it was a job I was doing for the week. Thanks for doubting my social status though. Means a lot. To HereLies, another amazing review. I'll pick out one thing and that is Ysold and Jon. I'm really pleased you like her personality and how she can stand up to Jon. Also pleased you liked all the references to them working as a team. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review. Some cool ideas there. I was going to dump Hadvar on Jon's wall so that's all good then. I'm probably not going to include Werewolf stuff as its a secret, but the ideas are pretty good. To JakMar, thanks for the review! Magic isn't as powerful as it is in-game, or at least only a VERY powerful Mage could heal Jon. And hopefully the battle will be really epic. To Foacir, cheers for the review! I'm really pleased to see that you loved the chapter and that it had more detail. Don't worry, I wasn't annoyed by your constructive criticism! To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for your review! Whoa. Cool, I'm sure Ralof would be happy to be described as badass. As for Kodlak, I'm pleased that you liked his cameo appearance. To DraGG, thanks for the review! Yep, Jon's going to be Jarl, if he survives... As for Ralof, I'll include a description of his new equipment in the next chapters. To DragonXander, cheers for the review! I'm really happy to see that I managed to elicit some laughter from you and I'm also pleased to see someone else likes Balgruuf as well! As for the editing, again thanks, but I'll pass. I do appreciate it though so thanks for the offer. **

**Also, when I say upper torso armour, I'm talking about the type Arthur (if any one has seen the BBC 'Merlin' show) wears. If you know the actual name, please tell me because I have no idea.**

**Very nearly there. The build up's been immense, right?  
**

**Thane Jon Stormcloak**

Jon Stormcloak woke in early vu, _dawn_. He looked down on Ysold lovingly and rubbed her waist gently, waking her. They shared a kiss before Jon pulled himself out of the bed and rose, stretching out his limbs. Ysold pulled on a shift and moved over to where Jon stood by the window, watching the city. She leant against his side gently and he relished her warmth. Ysold hummed gently and they stood there for while, just enjoying each others company. All around were his Father's forces, bulging and seething like an angry nest of beetles. Catapults flung yol, _fire_, over the walls and tiny men crawled through the city streets and walls. Soon, Jon would join them down there.  
Fear rose over him like black cloud. Fear for the battle, fear for the pain of defeat. But most of all, fear of losing his family again. He didn't want to go down there with the possibility that he would never come back, but he had to. It had become his war now; the War of the Stormcloaks. It had a ring to it, Jon admitted, yet no matter of light-heartedness could erase the feeling of immense dread; he would just have to live with it.  
He muttered a quiet word to Ysold, who went off to side of the room where he kept the trappings of kein, _war_. Jon, meanwhile, walked to his wardrobe and pulled on first some tough, thick leather breeches, and then a light shirt. Meanwhile, Ysold picked up the first piece of armour they would need, Jon's set of Skyforge Steel greaves. Stormcloak pulled on a pair of tough leather boots and laced them before Ysold strapped the greaves to his shins. As she rose, Jon ran his hands over her shoulders tenderly, relishing the feel of them, his only pleasure now.  
Ysold held out Jon's leather gambeson, a thick leather armour worn under chainmail that reached to the knees, and helped him don it, Jon kneeling to help her complete the task. He placed his hands on her hips, and rested his head on her stomach. These simple actions were important, because unlike before, the time Jon would go forth to grah, _battle_, was approaching slowly, and they still had time to convey their love. Also the movements of arming Jon felt good, like every piece of armour further increased his chances of survival. It was a soothing routine, and one they needed to stay mul, _strong_.  
'I don't want you to go,' Ysold said softly.  
Jon cupped her face in his hands. 'Nor I, but I don't have a choice. I'm a Stormcloak-'  
'Promise me you will never become your Father. Never then, always concentrate on now.'  
Jon understood her concern; she didn't want him to be another Stormcloak martyr, obsessed with past honours. This Jon could promise.  
'Never,' he told her, tenderly.  
Ysold nodded and lifted his mail hauberk, struggling with its weight. Jon helped her and together they pulled it over his head. She went to get his belt, while Jon pulled over a mail collar, a piece of armour that covered his shoulders and upper chest.  
Ysold returned with the belt and she attached it herself, fastening the buckle securely. Jon pulled it. It was tight.  
They moved as one to get Jon's heavy Skyforge Steel upper torso armour, and Ysold fitted him into it slowly, ensuring that it fit well. Jon moved his arms to test its flexibility, while Ysold collected his mail backed gauntlets.  
Before she could fit them, Jon ran his hands over her face and kissed her.  
'It may be the last time I'm able to,' he said.  
'Don't talk like that.'  
'As you wish.' He didn't mention it again.  
Ysold pulled on his gloves and then moved to the zun, _weapons_. Her distaste was clear, so Jon gently came up alongside her and strapped on first the dagger given to him by Eorlund Gray-Mane, and then Kodaav. He pulled out the ancient blade a few inches and tested it's edge. The blade opened the tough leather. Then Ysold handed him a light war axe, in case it became close combat, and helped him strap a quiver and bow to his back. She handed him a flask of full of the milk of the poppy, to numb the pain of his wound, and then Jon took up his spaan, _shield_, painted with the Eastmarch likeness, before giving Ysold a final kiss and saying;  
'There are no words, only actions.' And then he left.

Jon briefly checked in on Alsfur, but the boy was still asleep. He kissed him gently and made his way from the room, straining his desire to look back.  
Jon Stormcloak left Dragonsreach and met up with Ralof. They exchanged no rot, _words_, instead they just walked on together, with Jon trying to find Balgruuf. It wasn't hard, as the Jarl was flying the flag of Whiterun over his position; perhaps not the smartest move he could have made, Jon observed. The area was littered with arrows; a testament to the vain attempts to kill him.  
Jon took the steps two at a time, even in his heavy mail, and reached the top just as another bombardment began. He spotted Balgruuf a few metres away along the wall, bellowing out orders. When Jon approached he turned, his gauntleted hands on his hips.  
'Good morning, Stormcloak.' Jon nodded. 'Well, I'm not going to claim any authority over you now, not seeing as in the eyes of the Empire you're the closest thing they have to a new Jarl of Windhelm. So, instead I ask this; what do you think?'  
And like that they were equals. Jon looked over the landscape, using his keen vision to pick out individual soldiers.  
'Ulfric will have capable Captains, who might have managed to convince him of war tactics. Let's assume that is going happen. If so, they will likely come in waves, with heavy catapult fire to cover their advance.'  
'Why would Ulfric not listen to them?' Balgruuf asked, watching Jon intently.  
Stormcloak felt like he was under pressure now; Wind-Shifter was obviously testing him, but he replied confidently because he knew he was right.  
'Ulfric is too rash and fiery to bother with a smarter attack. He doesn't have the patience. I suspect he will try and destroy the gates with catapults, and then use heavy infantry to withstand our ronaaz. Arrows,' Jon quickly explained.  
'That would cost many lives.' Balgruuf was impressed though. 'You know war.'  
'No, I know the man.'  
The Whiterun Jarl considered this carefully. 'You know what I expect from you here.'

Jon nodded. Secretly though, he very much doubted his ability to lead men against a foe such as Ulfric, but he tried not to show it, though he feared his eyes betrayed him.  
If Balgruuf noticed his doubt though, he didn't mention it. 'You'll do, Stormcloak. You managed to convince me to let a dragon attack my city. You're a proven fighter, now a great hero... I need men to inspire, Jon Stormcloak. I expect only the best from you.'  
Jon considered this. It was true, his skills were the only hope they really had for victory, against a hardened commander such as Ulfric. But the thought left him a little unsure. It was one thing to inspire through deeds, and another thing entirely to lead men whose lives depended on your orders. But it was time to step up, and take his birthright.  
'If I am Stormcloak, I will survive.' He felt like he had just chanced fate, and feared now for its consequences on Ysold and Alsfur.  
Balgruuf continued his speech. 'The main gate,' he mused. 'It will be dangerous.' Jon just looked at him. 'But no more dangerous than fighting a god, eh?' The Jarl laughed. 'Fine, I'll send three of my own Thanes to supplement your garrison with their men. That's twelve thousand of my men, under your command.' The Jarl looked pointedly at Jon. The younger Stormcloak grasped his meaning perfectly. 'I'll get some Companions down here as well. Gods know, you'll need them.'  
Balgruuf looked back at Ralof, standing behind Jon. 'Why is he here?'

'Ralof is my Housecarl.'

Balgruuf raised his eyebrows. 'You knighted a rebel traitor?'  
'He fought for a cause he believed in. Ralof's a good man. He's my Housecarl.'  
'Are you sure about this?'  
'I'd give up the best sword in Skyrim for a good friend at my side instead.' Ralof glowered with pride behind Jon, who stood his ground firmly.  
'Spoken like a true Stormcloak.' He nodded at Jon, who returned it and strode off to his position on the west, seeing as Galmar seemed to be taking the east side.

Jon turned to watch the walls, his stomach tight with fear. _What do you plan to do Ulfric?_ He slumped down next to the wall and started honing his hahkun, _axe_, hoping that he'd see Ysold again before this was all done.

**Do, du, do, du, do. (Nice guitar tune, in the background.) That's it for now. See you all later… for the biggest battle of the entire story!**


	63. The Storm Breaks

**Here we go then. It is actually the battle. **

**The thanks: To HereLies, thanks for the review! As always, I'm really glad you like Ysold and Jon's relationship and Jon's faith in Ralof. Hell, I love all your comments! To JakMar, thanks for the review! Don't worry about Ysold, she'll be fine. Hope you like the battle. To Delphine hater, cheers for the review. I appreciate the thing about reviews and viewing. That's great and I appreciate it. Also, I'm glad you liked Ysold and Jon's affectionate moments. To DragonXander, HA! Yes, no typos! This chapter is longer, so I hope you like it! Thanks for the review! To DraGG, thanks for the review! (That's sounded strange, putting them together.) The battle is in this chapter and the next. Enjoy! **

**No kidding now. This is actually the battle. (Or at least the first part.)**

**Carl Ralof of Riverwood**

**Carl Ralof of Riverwood sat** with his back against the walls of Whiterun, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. Across from him was Thane Jon Stormcloak, Jon, who sat silent and still, his bow by his side, his shield at his feet. Jon looked up to see Ralof staring at him, and nodded. The newly made Carl looked away. He was scared. A foolish man would say that a Carl shouldn't feel this way, but Ralof was practical; he knew that every man was feeling just as he was now. That said, he shouldn't show his fear. All the men had left were inspiration leaders...  
A horn cut through the air; a Stormcloak horn. Ralof leapt to his feet as Jon rose behind him. The men were looking anxious but Stormcloak ignored them and strode up next to his Housecarl.  
'Are they attacking?' He asked.  
Ralof recognised the movement, including the sound of the advance horns and the faint winding of mechanical machines. 'Yep, they're attacking.'  
Jon turned away and bellowed out an order. 'Prepare to receive catapults!'  
Ralof slapped Stormcloak's arm lightly. 'Nothing to worry about. The guys at those things are shit.' No sooner were the words from his mouth than a raging ball of fire slammed into a section of the wall next to them, and a tongue of flame leaped up from it, throwing back the men below it, and leaving heavy damage.  
Jon looked at him, his eyebrows raised. Ralof shrugged. 'Maybe they were killed in Solitude?'  
Stormcloak turned away and started making his way down the line, bellowing out orders to stay low. The catapults flung fire over the walls, and into their lines. Soon the city was blazing and heat beat against Ralof's face. He glanced back from his position, as he huddled up to the wall, to see teams of woman and children throwing water on the flames, desperately trying to put them out. _If the fire catches, anything we do here will be worthless, _Ralof mused, his anxiety building. Soon they would be fighting.

He was broken from his dark mood by an overly enthusiastic voice to him.

'I hope I get to kill some Stormcloaks!' It belonged to a red-haired youth. He noticed Ralof looking at him, presumably he had been talking to no one before, and beamed. 'My name is Erik.'

'Mine's Ralof.'

'Cool, is that Cyrodillic?'

The Carl was puzzled by the question. 'I don't think so-'

Erik cut him off, and starting burbling happily. 'I've practiced with the sword for years, so hopefully I'll kill loads, and then the Jarl will anoint me as Carl and then I'll kill Ulfric in single combat, and then he'll name me as his Housecarl.'

'Slow down,' Ralof said. 'How do you plan on killing Ulfric?'

'Well, I've trained with the sword, so I'll best him in single combat, and then I'll-'

'Become the Jarl's Housecarl?' Ralof supplied.

'Right!' Erik agreed.

The Carl turned away. 'Wonderful,' he muttered sarcastically.

Just then, the catapult fire ceased and a sweating Nord ran up to Jon. He quickly whispered some words to the Thane, who then quickly made his way to Ralof, keeping low against the wall.

'Seems they are about to attack,' Jon said grimly. 'I want you down there. You'll have joint-command with Companion Vilkas.'

Ralof nodded, taking in the orders. 'That seems good.'

The Housecarl started to get up, but Jon held him down. 'This is it, Ralof. You fail, and we die. Try and kill as many as possible.'

The Carl snorted. 'Your words are as inspiring as always.' That left Jon looking somewhat unsure, but Ralof ignored him and quickly made his way to the Companion.

Vilkas was a large Nord, with dark hair and a lithe figure. He was talking with some of his men.

'The First Gate. Thane Stormcloak wants us on them. Ulfric is attacking.'

The Companion nodded and quickly bellowed out orders. Ralof let him get to it, and started making his way down the walls, grabbing able men as he saw them. The host was about five thousand strong when it marched out of the gates, enough to hold them, but much to Ralof's dismay it soon degenerated from a structured unit into an unorganised rabble.

They passed the main gate, and over the drawbridge. Fires blazed around the path, but the defences were still in good shape. Ralof knew he had been right about the men controlling the catapults.

The host made its way down the path and then there it was: the First Gate. It was closed; two big wooden doors, but even as they watched they started breaking apart. With growing horror, Ralof realised the Stormcloaks were breaking through! He drew his war axe, and made sure his shield was secure on his arm before he started running, with no further thought as to his own safety, calling the men behind him. His mail was covered in a black sash, that of Windhelm, and he had two metal pauldrons on his shoulders. The armour weighed him down now, but even as he saw Ulfric's men smash through the gate, his rage built and all his fear was washed away in the flood of emotions.

'TO ME!' Ralof swung his axe forward and charged. His men let out a bellow, their naked steel flashing. 'FOR THE TRUE STORMCLOAK!' The men took up his cry, or echoed it with Balgruuf's name instead, but the effect was loud and uniting nonetheless. The Stormcloaks resisted the fear factor though and charged as well, shouting their own cries. The two sides collided at the gate with a crash of bodies. There was no order, just chaos. Ralof hacked his axe at the men in front of him, and swept it around. Nords fell and blood splashed into his eyes. He bellowed a cry, his bloodlust pushing him forward still. His axe struck bone, and broke it. Another scream was added to the carnage, and then he could see.

A Stormcloak burst from the mass of fighting bodies, and swung his sword at Ralof's feet. The Carl kicked it aside with his heavy leather boot and swung his shield around, breaking his opponents teeth in a shower of blood and gum.

Vilkas was next to him, and he fought with skill unmatched. He carved forward a path, breaking the Stormcloak line, but then the arrows fell, hitting all, friend and foe alike. Vilkas looked up as the arrow pierced his knee. He screamed and then spat out blood, but in his pain he didn't notice the sword. It burst through his neck and he fell. Fear rushed through Ralof at the defeat of such a great warrior, and he lashed out wildly. His axe slammed into the killer's shoulder and then Ralof threw him down to be crushed by the press. An arrow struck his mail, but it glanced off, sending Ralof to his knees. He tried to pick himself up from the blow but before he could, a man stood over him. The Carl thrust up behind his shield, but the Nord pushed him down and hammered his axe on Ralof's defences. Chips of wood flew up, and each blow numbed the Carl's arm. _So this is death. It's not that bad, _he thought as the blows descended.

His shield cracked and he saw his killer's face, leering down on him. The axe descended, but a sword interposed itself and turned the Stormcloak's weapon. A spiked gauntlet slammed into his face and Erik's red hair appeared in Ralof's vision.

'Need a hand?'

'Erik you bastard! You could have come earlier.' They let out battle crazed laughter as the youth pulled up the Housecarl. Ralof quickly looked around. The battle wasn't going well; they were being overwhelmed and had to fall back.

'Retreat to the drawbridge! FALL BACK!' Ralof bellowed as he himself stepped back, assigning men to cover their retreat. Erik bounced up and down, ready to move, but the sudden movement of the retreating allies knocked him over. His head smashed against the stone of the first gate and he fell to the floor unconscious, almost comically. Ralof watched in disbelief at Erik's complete incompetency, before he regained his senses and fell back quickly, his footsteps making the ground muddy and wet.

The sun was coming up, but it was beginning to snow. The ground moved beneath his feet as he ran up the slope and he fell, mud coating his armour. Ralof realised that his helm had a crack in it, and through that spot, blood was getting into his eyes. They was no pain though, so Ralof ignored the possible wound, wiping the scarlet liquid from his face, and continued to struggle up the slope. The arrows had started again, and they were tearing through his men, stopping them from reaching sanctuary. Screams rang out as the missiles pierced throats and chests. _I hate arrows! _Ralof growled silently, as he stepped over the bodies of his comrades. The Carl was lucky though; none of the missiles hit him, though they did come close as he struggled through the bloody mud, littered with bone white snow and choked bodies.

The Carl made his way over the drawbridge and glanced back. He was the last, but the enemy was closing behind him, screaming their war cries. In a rush of inspiration Ralof bellowed an order.

'Close the drawbridge! The rest of you, pull out your bows! Archers to the front!' The men rushed to the task with a speed fuelled on by the impending fear of death as personified in the form of many hideously distorted faces and sharp blades. Cold sweat was beginning to run down Ralof's face, mingling with the blood to create a vile concoction that made him throw up a little.

The Housecarl shrugged off his nausea and turned back to his men, who were as ready as they could be. Those who still had their bows were lined up, arrows nocked. The men were approaching so there was no time for formalities.

'LOOSE ARROWS!' A deadly hail shot out from the strings, which had coped well in the weather. They slammed into the Stormcloaks in a deadly rain of death. The close frequency meant that every arrow punched through armour, ripping flesh and throwing down the men. The enemy fell back, dazed and confused, with fear shooting through their ranks. The drawbridge came up quickly and then there was calm.

Ralof slumped down, and breathed in the thick, snowy air, mingled with the blood and sweat of battle. He pulled off his helm and put his hand to his head. There was a lot of blood, and it was beginning to shoot fire through his mind, but the Carl couldn't go down; these were his men and he had to lead them as best he could. He struggled to his feet and stumbled up the ramparts that surrounded the main gate in a small square to the drawbridge. He was pleased to see the men there ready with bows and arrows, shooting any man who came too close. Less pleasing was seeing Ulfric's next move. The King's men were getting ready grapples, presumably to try and pull down the drawbridge. Ralof wasn't sure how well they expected it to work, but it was fine by him. The more time they spent getting ready, the better a respite the he got.

The Carl used this time to look around. Ralof couldn't see how the other battles were going, but by the distant clash of steel and the screams of the wounded, they were obviously well underway. It wasn't long though before he had to turn his attention back to his own fight. The Stormcloaks had worked quickly and were coming forward now, with large shields in front of them, to try and pull down the drawbridge.

'Give them a volley,' Ralof told his archers now on the ramparts. To the men below he bellowed; 'they're coming through! Ready weapons and prepare to shove your swords up their arses!'

His men roared their approval and he turned back to see their pathetic attempts at breaching the defence. Ralof started laughing, and his men jeered with him. That was, until they heard the cries of battle to their right. The Carl turned to see his men being overrun by Stormcloaks. In a daze, with thoughts rushing through his mind, Ralof stepped forward to the battle, his breath frosting in the air. _How did they get through? _

The Carl pulled his thoughts out of his confusion and started shouting.'The wall! Defend it! The wall!' Ralof moved his reluctant limbs into a run and kicked a Nord climbing over the wall with his foot. He fell with a blood curling scream and Ralof swung his axe down on a Stormcloak who was fighting another of his men. The weapon took another hit to break through the chainmail covering his arm, but with that hit metal rings and flesh exploded from the wound. The Nord fell screaming and Ralof returned a nod with the Whiterun fighter. The Housecarl turned to find more men piling onto the wall and launching themselves into the fight. As a result the battlements were becoming choked with men, and the crush was becoming dangerous. Sensing the need to act, Ralof leapt forward and tried to pull a man out of it, screaming; 'Organise yourselves! Form a line or they'll overwhelm you!'

No one listened though. Instead Ralof was shoved back. He lost his footing and fell off the wall, onto his back. Pain shot through it and all his wind rushed out in one sickening second. He opened his mouth, trying to draw in air and push back tears, before giving up and sprawling in the mud. The Carl looked up through a blurry vision to see Stormcloaks covering the courtyard, killing his men with flashing steel. Ralof couldn't shout, or talk though. It was becoming a massacre as his men tried to fight back as individuals against large groups. And then, just as it couldn't get worse, it did. He stepped down from the steps, swinging his sword as he prepared to fight. It was the High King, Ulfric Stormcloak.

His dark eyes swept across the fighting, and focused on Ralof, still on the ground, staring back in horror. The Carl tried to get up, but he couldn't. His axe was lying by his side, but too far away to reach.

Ulfric's face was contorted with mad rage, his teeth bared as he realised what this meant. 'You betrayed me,' he spat out. His foot slammed into Ralof's throat, and the Carl choked out blood. 'The price of betrayal is death.' He pointed his sword down, raised it, waiting to descend…

A shape threw itself into him. They tumbled over in the mud, and steel flashed down on Ulfric. He blocked with his bracer and punched the man in the face. His saviour fell into Ralof's sight, his lip bloody as he struggled to his feet. It was Hadvar.

Ulfric laughed, a harsh sound. 'Of all the things to see here… but an Imperial! I thought I wiped you out in Solitude.'

Hadvar shook his head. 'Never.'

'If only this stubborn resistance had lasted in the Great War.' He swung his sword down, but Hadvar blocked and thrust his own into Ulfric's stomach. The King sidestepped, backhanding the Imperial and swinging his sword at his opponents head. Hadvar ducked and slammed his fist into Ulfric's gut, who retaliated with a headbutt that sent the Imperial sprawling back, and then the King went to one knee and drew his blade across Hadvar's ankle. Blood leapt from the wound and the young Nord fell, screaming, his face scrunched up in agony. This time Ulfric didn't wait. He positioned himself over the Imperial, but before he could bring down his blade a horn rang out.

It was a strange sound. It filled Ralof himself with strength, drive and vigour, but Ulfric, normally so fearless, fell back, looking terrified. His men did the same, falling back and stumbling over each other in their efforts to escape. Ralof's men were too broken to chase them, though they did send them off with a few arrows and taunts as their strength was supplemented by the sound.

The horn rang out a second time, but it didn't quite have the same effect. With his blackening vision, Ralof looked around, trying to take in everything. Hadvar had crawled up next to him. With a struggling breath, Ralof spoke.

'Maybe I was wrong about you,' he admitted the Imperial Nord.

'It's never too late.'

'I don't know. It feels very late in the day.'

Hadvar made to reply, concern turning his features but he was pushed aside by none other than Jon Stormcloak. At his side a horn hung, made of white ivory and banded in silver.

'You're not dying on me, you bastard,' he said as his hands ran over Ralof.

The Housecarl grinned, a fearsome sight now. 'I wouldn't dream of it.'

**Ulfric and Jon will meet next chapter. Please review, because it's going to be epic. (I hope.)**


	64. Father And Son

**Well, you guys have been asking for a confrontation. It seemed like a good place to put it in, but the 'cage match' will have to wait for later. **

**The thanks: Here we go… To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased you liked Hadvar and Ralof's reconciliation, and the quote about Solitude engineers! To JakMar, thanks for the review! The horn was none other than the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller! It's explained in this chapter. To Foacir, thanks for the review. You seem to jump in and out of an official account. The estimates will be given next chapter, but I'll tell you now in detail anyway. Each Jarl controls about 20,000 men. Jon- 40,000 men take 10,000 after the last battle. Ulfric- 70,000 including his Stormcloaks, but take about 20,000. That is very rough, but hopefully its good enough for you. And Foacir, you're right. The end is very near. I reckon we've got about five chapters left. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure. To HereLies, cheers for the review! I'm really glad you liked the POV, sorry about Vilkas, and I'm really pleased you appreciated the archery used in the battle. Brilliant! To ejthepinoy, thanks for the review! Hopefully the confrontation will be good, but it isn't the end. Just saying. Nice GoT quote as well. If you're obeying, write fifty reviews please! (I don't actually expect you too.) To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! You probably won't see Kodlak vs Galmar now, BUT I will put in a fight later, just for you. It'll be cool, hopefully. As for the dragons, as Odahviing said, they have no master, save Alduin. AKA, they aren't coming. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! I'm pleased to hear I actually get a bit of amusement out of you, (comedy isn't my strong suit) and I'm sorry to hear about you being an insomniac. I can't say I understand, but it must suck. To Mega Kilo 69, thanks for the review. As you can probably see, I used the cage match thing above. Nice, it made me smile. Sorry about Vilkas. All I can say is anyone can die in war. To Shadow Horizons, (nice name) thanks for the story follower! To DraGG, thanks for that review! I'm really happy that you like Erik (who isn't dead by the way) and the next part of the battle is coming up next. To bigstupidjellyfish1337, thanks for the story favourite! Cool, thank you all! **

**By the way, I am SO near to 300 reviews. Please review the next part guys. We're nearly there (that is to say, I'm nearly there! MWAHAHAHA!) **

**Also, a massive thanks to HereLies, for the brilliant editing job. This chapter would be shit with out it. DragonXander, there should be no typos! (I hope.) If there are any remains of the editing process, it's my fault guys.**

**Thane Jon Stormcloak**

**Thane Jon Stormcloak rode his **horse forward, into the plains in front of Whiterun. After the grah, _battle_, yesterday Ulfric had raised a white flag, the sign of a treaty. Jon and his companions had agreed to meet the King, with his own commanders, at midday to discuss peace. Honestly, Jon expected little from Ulfric, but he was willingly to give his Father the chance.

Before coming here, the Commanders had all agreed that Jon's identity would be kept secret when talking to Ulfric. It was unlikely that he had picked up on any of the shouting during the battle, Jon knew he hadn't. They had finally decided to do this, mostly because of the younger Stormcloak's own insistence, unless they should need to reveal it. After his successful defence of the city, even using the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, Jon's standing had subtly, but immensely, changed. Now, he led the Jarls to the peace treaty, and while it appealed to Jon's 'Stormcloak Pride' he made sure that he kept any Pahlok, _arrogant_, thoughts in check and remained true to himself. Ysold wouldn't take another man back, nor would Jon's own conscience.

With Thane Stormcloak rode the Captain's of Skyrim, as they had started to refer to themselves. The first Battle of Whiterun had proved that they had mulaag; _strength_, enough to challenge Ulfric now. And with Jon's appearance, their cause had gained the universal leadership it needed to resist the High King, rather than resting on the shoulders of a largely unknown leader such as Balgruuf, who lacked the national factor Ulfric possessed. At the present, the Captain's of Skyrim included the Whiterun Jarl, Siddgeir, much to everyone's displeasure, and Hadvar. They were as of yet unsure whether any of the ravens Balgruuf had sent nearly a month ago had actually reached Solitude's bannermen or Jarl Igmund Oath of Markarth, but at the moment it didn't matter; they were drunk on their recent krongrah, _victory_, and everyone, save Jon, was filled with a pride that raised their heads and gave them purpose. In their party were also the Jarls Housecarls, including Ralof, who had insisted on coming, despite his wounds.

The blow to his head had been serious, but luckily it was easing away quickly, in part due to Whiterun's Mages, and Ralof's own determined strength. The strike to his throat had caused no real damage, save a good deal of pain everytime he swallowed. Privately, Jon couldn't have been more proud of Ralof, or his actions during the defence. He was the real hun, _hero_, and Jon wished he could openly recognized his friend as such. But the Thane was also wise enough to know that his new God-like reputation, that was somehow managing to combat Ulfric's own, would suffer if he did, possibly failing to keep the men on his side. It was a delicate and tricky situation, but one Jon had little control over. All he could do was take the praise quietly and honour Ralof as best he could.

The snow had also stopped last night, but the ground was still covered in a thin blanket, which their mounts disturbed with every step. It was cold out, but they were all Nords, so they shook it off easily.

The ride was short, but when they arrived at the meeting Ulfric wasn't there. Jon looked around vainly, before giving way to his rahgot, _anger_. _Him and his damn pride! _Jon cursed angrily. _Hell will freeze over before he overcomes it. _Ralof noticed his liege's expression and kept quiet. At times like this it was best not to provoke him, or the unfortunate person would realise that Jon's temper resembled Ulfric's more than he knew.

The younger Stormcloak circled his horse wildly and took an angry swig of the milk of the poppy from his side flask. It was the only thing that actually kept the faaz, _pain_, from his wound by Alduin under control. In addition, Jon had also noticed that he couldn't lift his arm beyond a certain height, despite his best efforts. _It will probably be like that for life,_ Jon reflected gloomily as he slowly calmed down.

As Jon slowed his mount, shapes appeared in the distance. The King was exiting his camp. The Thane rode his key, _horse_, back into a rough group with the other Captains, and looked them over quickly. They were all wearing armour, the best they could get, covered with heavy sable cloaks. Jon's own mail been repaired by Eorlund, who had been delighted to hear of Alduin's demise in his own moody way. He was satisfied that they looked worthy of Ulfric's attention, and so the younger Stormcloak resumed watching his Bormah, _Father_, approach.

Jon's eyes hadn't deceived him. It was Ulfric Stormcloak and his Captains who rode up to meet them. They matched each other in number, and rode up to meet in the centre of the plain between the camp and city. As previously discussed between them, the Captain's of Skyrim dismounted and took a knee before Ulfric, who bid them rise. All these small actions were designed to improve the King's mood and further their own attempts negotiating with him.

'I am here. What do you want?' Ulfric asked, before his eyes locked onto Jon. A puzzled look crossed his face. 'You're fighting for the Imperials?' He growled.

Jon almost felt sorry for Father as he mounted again. 'Your Grace, we wish to discuss peace, as you know.'

'You fight for the Imperials?' Ulfric repeated, ignoring what Jon had just said.

'No, I don't!' The younger Stormcloak snapped. 'We fight for Keizaal, _Skyrim_, a free Skyrim.'

'I will make it free!'

Balgruuf interrupted, spurring his horse forward to get in between them. 'Stop this!' He turned to face Ulfric. 'Your Grace, we are here to talk about ending the war, not restarting it.'

'So you're trying this again, Jon? If I remember correctly, the last peace treaty in High Hrothgar you made wasn't very successful,' the King said, somewhat cruelly, looking at him.

The Thane merely nodded, not willing to be provoked.

'What do you want then?' Ulfric sighed.

'Pardons, first and foremost,' Balgruuf said, and the King nodded. 'We also want to stay in the Empire-'

Ulfric smiled. 'But that is exactly what I am fighting against. Why would I want to give up everything I've worked for?'

Balgruuf nodded in recognition of the point and Siddgeir rode forward. 'Fine, we'll break from the Empire, but we must remain good allies.'

'You cannot break from the Empire,' Hadvar insisted.

The High King watched them squabble with an amused expression. 'I will remain friends with the Empire, I suppose, if it brings unity back to Skyrim.'

'But it won't though, will it, Ulfric?' Jon said, quietly. He knew what he wanted, and what Tamriel needed, and like his Father before him he would take no middle ground. 'Skyrim will continue to fight. The Empire was born here. _It_ will always continue to fight, as will I.'

'Stubborn attitudes like that will get you killed, Jon,' Ulfric warned.

'Try it then! Your cause is doomed.'

The Jun, _King_, frowned. 'This is most unlike you. You seem rather passionate about this weak Empire.'

'Because I have foresight, Ulfric. I can look beyond my own ambition and see what you can't. Elven boots will tramp on Skyrim's earth, no matter what you do. In that moment, as the blades descend, all Tamriel will join together against the Thalmor, in a way that has never been seen before, even in the days of Talos' Empire! But in that moment Ulfric, you will be alone,' Jon predicted, watching Ulfric intently.

The elder Stormcloak was not impressed. 'I will take my chances. One good sword is better than five bad ones.'

'We have no time for this!' Balgruuf interrupted again. 'Your Grace, we will accept you as High King in Skyrim. We will bow to you and any of your Heirs…'

At the last word, Ulfric suddenly looked troubled, and he frowned. Jon watched him, and recognised what his Father must be thinking.

'That is if you have any Heirs, Ulfric, isn't it?' He said, in a mad Stormcloak-fuelled attempt to provoke his Father.

The King looked up, his eyes blazing. 'What did you say?'

Jon returned his stare equally. 'You heard me.'

'I don't like your tone,' Ulfric growled, moving his horse forward threateningly.

'No, you wouldn't! It often hurts to hear yourself doesn't it…' Jon paused, but his mood took him forward. 'Father.' He regretted the word the moment it was out.

The King looked confused. 'You have no right to call-' Ulfric looked more carefully at Jon, and his face became white as the sos, _blood,_ drained out. 'Alea?' He breathed.

His son nodded, and Ulfric pulled his horse back, as if trying to keep his distance from this strange spectre of himself.

'How can you know?'

'Sovngarde.'

Ulfric registered this and then his mind came to the conclusion of what exactly Jon actually meant, and he looked on Jon with new eyes. 'Why would you fight me then? I am your Father.'

'The word means many things, Ulfric. You have earned none of them.'

'That is unfair, Jon.'

'Why?!' The younger bellowed suddenly, all the pent up frustration he had felt with his Mother's secrets and everything he couldn't say at the time tumbling from his mouth. 'Why should I suddenly accept you as my Father? Why does everyone think that I will run into your arms? You gave me nothing!' Jon pointed accusingly at his Father. 'You never even bothered to look for us!'

'Jon, I never knew that your Mother was still alive-'

'But it would be easy for you find out, as great a Jarl as you are.'

'It was different-'

'We grew up alone. No one helped us. It was just me, her and your ghost. She talked about you everyday! "Killed in war." Naïve that I was, I believed her.'

'Jon, this is uncalled for-'

'WHY DID YOU KILL HER!'

'I never killed her-'

'But without you she would still be alive!'

'Without me, she was never happy!' He retorted, his nah, _fury_, uncontrolled.

Jon fell silent, breathing heavily and glaring at his Father.

Ulfric rounded on Balgruuf. 'This is what you bring me! A long lost son and some bullshit ideals! The siege will continue, but it will end tonight.' The King turned to his son. 'And you, my boy,' spitting the words out; 'you have one more chance to surrender or I will rip you to pieces myself!'

Jon's anger was spent, so instead he replied calmly, but his voice was still tight. 'I will see you on the walls then.'

Ulfric licked his lips and looked between the Captains with a wild stare. 'Fine,' he said, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. 'I'll see you in hell.' With that he turned his horse and thundered off, his Captains struggling behind him.

Now it was over, Jon deflated. He had handled that in entirely the wrong way. He had let his confused emotions get the better of him, and now, there would be no peace. More would die, all because of him.

'That went well,' Ralof said, breaking the heavy silence.

**Review please. The magic 300! Remember! Also, I just want to say that we are near the end. Then, it's onto Part 2 (which will be MUCH shorter) and then, Part 3. The ultimate part…**


	65. The Housecarl

**The thanks: First off, people seriously got into the 300 quote. I didn't even mean it like that, but there you go. To Mega Kilo 69, thanks for the review and being the first to use the quote. To HereLies. Thank you for the great, super detailed awesome review. And you were the second to use the quote. To JakMar, thanks for your review. For all the stuff you said in your review, I think you'll like the last chapter... mostly. To Delphine hater, thanks for your review! That's cool. You've been to Rome. I've always wanted to go there, but the Pope actually died as we were set to go and all the air traffic was clogged up so, no trip. Pope John Paul annoys me. As for Balgruuf and Ulfric, well jealousy and different causes caused them to lose their friendship, mostly jealousy. To Him, thanks for the review. Glad you like the story. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Cool, I'm glad you've focused on how messed up the characters actually are. As for a happy ending, I'm not sure I can give it to you, as you predicted. You'll see what happens in (definitely) three chapters time. The ' in Captain's was deliberate. If nothing else it looks better. To DraGG, thanks for the review! You might be able to get the 300th review yet. Plan it carefully and you never know! **

**Okay, thank you all. I wrote this weirdly, and guys now we are near 300 reviews. And no, not 300 the movie. I need to put in a reference later to that in my next stories and I will. **

**Here we go. The next chapter will be very short, but I think you guys will like it.**

**Jarl Balgruuf Wind-Shifter **

**Ulfric's army was large. Very **large. Even after the last battle, Stormcloak's numbers were still among some fifty thousand, having lost a good twenty in his last attack. Jarl Balgruuf Wind-Shifter watched as they approached again, on the east side of his city. It was going to be tough, that much was certain. Balgruuf bellowed some encouragement to his men and got them to ready their bows. Naturally, as Jarl, he had no bow. Instead, Balgruuf directed their actions with his sword, and inspired them through his actions.

'Hold your arrows!' He shouted, to ensure that no one shot anything… yet. Balgruuf would wait until the Dawnstar men had advanced within range, and then he would unleash hell.

_Skald won't know what hit him, _Balgruuf thought, satisfied that his men would do their work well. The Jarl of Dawnstar's men were advancing carefully, keeping an even line with their ladders. There were no siege towers though. _Ulfric probably doesn't even know how to make them! _Irileth, his Housecarl, ran up to him, the Dark Elf's face streaked with sweat.

'Thane Rorik Stead requests more men on his side of the wall. He says that Skald will try and use the weaker section of the wall to his advantage.'

Balgruuf frowned. He had meant to fix that. It's uneven surface, and heavy cracks in the stonework, made it hard to defend but relatively easy to take. The Jarl nodded his approval.

'Send him the men from Riverwood, under Gerdur.'

'Thane Gerdur?'

'No.' _Another problem_, he thought angrily. 'She's only the town leader. Put her under Stead.'

'As you will, my Jarl.' She ran off to find Gerdur along the wall and Balgruuf returned to watching Skald's bannermen approach. _They are taking bloody ages!_ He glanced around. Jon Stormcloak was already fighting; Ulfric had never been one to hang around. Noises from the west suggested that Kodlak too was in battle.

Balgruuf turned back to watch their approach. As he did, he noticed that their men were depleted quite heavily. _We must have killed more than we thought,_ Balgruuf reflected, with unconcealed pride.

While he had this chance to think undisturbed, the Jarl turned his thoughts to the peace treaty. It had been a pathetic attempt, ending in only more war. That said, Balgruuf had expected little else. Jon was naïve to think he could ever have actually brokered peace with Ulfric, but it was his mistake to make. Wind-Shifter knew he had to leave the lad to his own devices if he wanted to become a Jarl one day. Even so, it did trouble Balgruuf to see him take the blows of failure, but there was nothing he could do. If Jon wanted to be ready for Jarlship, he would have to learn to take his mistakes and grow from them.

As he had stood thinking, Skald's men advanced significantly. Balgruuf reckoned they were probably in range now, and he would be damned if he was going to miss out on a chance to bloody Dawnstar.

'Loose your arrows!'

The Jarl's command was met by the twanging of bow strings, sounding all along his line. The black missiles slammed into the Dawnstar men with deadly power and their neat formation was torn apart. The Dawnstar men's courage broke and they started running forward in their haste to reach the wall.

'Again,' Balgruuf bellowed. Another volley hit their line and the Jarl grinned. _This is going well. _No sooner was that thought out that a man ran up to him, panting and sweating.

'What is it?'

'My Jarl, the North… Siddgeir needs help.'

Balgruuf laughed. 'Are the birds giving him trouble?'

The man shook his head furiously. 'Ulfric's men. Up the cliffs…'

The smile died on Balgruuf's lips. 'The cliff?' He repeated in disbelief.

'Yes…'

Dread filled his mind, but he ripped through it, calling for Irileth. She ran up immediately.

'Stead has command. Take half the men; you're with me. Ulfric has climbed the mountain.'

The Housecarl was unfazed; it was her job to be cool under pressure. 'But Skald is about to engage.'

'And thank the Gods he hasn't already. With me, quickly now!'

She started bellowing out orders and without further ado Balgruuf ran for the mountain that made up the back of the city, where Dragonsreach was situated. Their party ran through the city, through the fire of the catapults and broken buildings. The Jarl was breathing heavily by the time he reached the Cloud District, but for once Siddgeir was serious. It was being overrun by Stormcloaks, killing Falkreath men as they descended the steps. Without any thought for his own safety, Balgruuf closed his visor, drew his sword and leapt into the fray.

He dodged a blade and kicked out the Stormcloak man's legs, thrusting his sword into the fallen warrior's throat. He ripped it out in a shower of blood and picked up the man's war axe. With unnerving precision, he threw it. The axe smashed through one of the attacker's heads and he stumbled with death steps into his fellows. They fell from the steep, narrow steps that led up to the palace to the hard ground below.

'WITH ME!' The Jarl bellowed as he forced his way up the steps, swinging wildly. His face was set in a fearsome snarl and the enemy backed off before his rage. A spear thrust stabbed at him and he dodged, but unsuccessfully. It skated off his metal breastplate and he swung his sword at the hand that had delivered the strike. It was severed in a blur of red blood and white bone.

Sweat began to pour down his face as he heated up beneath his heavy plate. The Jarl stepped back and looked around at his men, catching his breath. They were tearing through the Stormcloaks nicely. Ulfric's men were now trapped behind his own and Siddgeir's. It was beautiful sight and he pulled off his helm as the Jarl of Falkreath came down the steps, his own sword covered in blood. They clasped arms, a sight Balgruuf thought he would never see, before Siddgeir spoke.

'I'm glad to see you. We were being overwhelmed.'

'I'm still struggling to work out why you didn't just knock them down the cliffs as they came up.'

'We…' He blushed and stopped speaking.

Balgruuf sighed as a horn ran out through the city, reverberating through his mind.

'That was Jon Stormcloak's horn,' Irileth said as he came up to them.

'The gate,' Wind-Shifter breathed. 'Could Ulfric have breached it?' He turned and looked over the city, his shock quickly being engulfed by a rising fear.

**Carl Ralof of Riverwood**

**Carl Ralof of Riverwood shouted **out encouragement to the men. He pushed against the main gates of Whiterun with fifteen of his them, trying to withstand Ulfric's battering ram. It slammed against the wood, throwing them back, but they quickly put their weight behind it again, tensing for another hit. Above them, Ralof could hear Jon shouting out orders as his men rained down arrows and stones on their attackers. They had managed to repel the ladders, but as they were doing this, Ulfric had managed to get his ram through.

From what he had seen before, while up on the walls, it was a big thing; made of wood with a cover to protect the men using it. Leather covered that, Ralof could smell its stink from up on the wall, but it protected the Stormcloaks well from fire, even Jon's thu'um.

Another hit shook Ralof from his thoughts and he fell to the icy ground heavily. He groaned and stood, touching his grazed knees gingerly as they sent jolts of pain up his legs, before forcing his weight to the gate again. Behind him and his men were a good chunk of Jon's overall command. They stood ready to receive Ulfric's forces should the gate fail. _And it will fail, _Ralof thought gloomily. It was hard to be optimistic when faced against such impossible odds, but he knew he had to be, so he forced a smile and shouted to his men;

'I'll have fallen asleep before they actually do any damage!'

It was met by few smiles and very little cheers. Ralof knew the joke was crap, but he had to say something. Gods knew he couldn't leave it into Jon's hands. Suddenly a crack sounded near Ralof's ear. He turned to see that some of the gate was splintering, and through that small gap were the roaring faces of men. _Ah, shit. _

'Get away from the gate! It's coming down,' he warned. His men ran for the safety of the line of defenders and Ralof followed. It wasn't a moment too soon. With a sharp crack and thundering splintering of wood, a massive chunk of wood fell from the gate, right into the place Ralof had been pushing. He thanked Talos before another hit broke the centre of the gate and Windhelm men started struggling through it, breaking loose pieces wit their shields.

'Have at them!' Ralof shouted and the men took up slings. A whirling sound filled the air and then they shot off, ripping through their enemies. Ralof grimaced; being shot by a tiny stone that punched through your body was a nasty way to go.

The Stormcloaks recovered though and swept forward, just as Jon Stormcloak finally arrived. Without wasting any time he drew his sword and pointed it forward, at the advancing horde.

'We don't fight for the Empire men, nor even Whiterun. We are the defenders of Skyrim!' He shouted. 'FORWARD!' He launched a rippling blue thu'um through the air, and it threw back a good score of the men. He leapt forward, carving a path through the Stormcloaks and his men followed him, screaming battle cries.

Ralof drew his axe and let himself he carried forward by the tide. A sword hit his pauldrons and he fell, before rising quickly and slamming his axe upward. The back of it, the spike, caught the Nord's chin and he let out a wordless scream as it broke his jaw. He fell and Ralof mercilessly hacked him down, breaking through his padded leather easily.

The Carl rose and quickly blocked a blow with his new shield, stepping back to absorb the hit before he swung his axe round to catch the Stormcloaks unprotected side. To his surprise, Ralof's opponent blocked the strike with his own shield and then rammed into Riverwood, trying to catch him off guard. The Carl met it steadfastly and then attacked wildly with his war axe, but before he could make an opening with his weapon they were swept away from each other in the tide of battle. Ralof took the opportunity for a quick rest. His mail weighed him down, and it was tiring to fight for even small stretches of time. His adrenaline heated him up like nothing else, and the heat sapped the strength from his limbs. He took in a deep breath before looking himself over, careful to keep his balance in the jostling movement of the fighting. He was good, save a bruised shoulder where he had been hit early on. Ralof marshalled his courage again, which left surprisingly quickly when out of the fighting, and made his way back to the front of the line, where he found himself next to Jon.

They exchanged a nod and then Ralof moved his shield in line to begin fighting. The Stormcloaks were becoming bolder and they attacked with renewed force. Blood hit Ralof's face as the man next to him died, but he reached across quickly and took of the Nord's arm in a crude hacking fashion. The Stormcloak screamed as the metal punched through his flesh messily, and then the Carl returned to his own fight, confident that his flanks were secure.

Even as he prepared to defend against a small Nord who had his blade levelled at him, he noticed that they were being pushed back steadily. Jon must have seen this too, for he began to fight with renewed vigour, his sword ripping apart wood and slamming into steel with a speed Ralof would have been too tired to keep up. This effort to turn the odds left him open though and Ralof quickly imposed his own weapon to stop another war axe aimed for Jon before slamming his shield into Stormcloak's would-be killer to throw him off balance. Pleased to be actually fulfilling his role as a Housecarl, Ralof instead turned his attention to defending Jon. It was a hard task, as most of the men were aiming for him now, and it left him hot and sweaty beneath his helm, but it had left him with immense satisfaction.

Despite their efforts though, they were falling back quite quickly now. Jon glanced around with frustration, but he was unable to do anything. He tried to use his horn, but as he fumbled with it a man leapt forward, stabbing him violently. Jon twisted and it caught him just below his shoulder, near his heart. With a scream Jon was knocked back. He dropped his sword and fell. The line broke, and the men started running away, making for the next level, leaving their fallen leader.

Horns blared and the Stormcloaks leapt forward, their red blades catching the fading light. Ralof looked around in despair, ready to run, before he remembered his oath. Jon was being surrounded quickly by four men as his own ran. Ralof only had seconds to decide; which meant more, his life or his honour?

It was a decision that he had already been faced with, and he had chosen his life. But instead of saving him, it had nearly damned him. There was only one choice now.

With a vicious roar Ralof leapt forward, smashing a man with shield. His axe bit into flesh and he managed to ward them off, but he couldn't fight four at once. Only Ulfric could do something like that. But he had choice…

The blocked a blow on his shield and sidestepped a thrust, bringing his axe down on the weapon, exposing the man's chest. He lashed out with his shield, breaking the Stormcloak's jaw, before he slashed his axe down on another of his enemies' outstretched arms. The axe broke the bone, but didn't quite cut through. Nonetheless the unfortunate Nord fell, screaming as blood turned his blue sash red.

Ralof couldn't face the next opponent in time though. The blade skated off his mail and he stumbled back, defenceless. The Stormcloak prepared for a stab, but then a silvery blade broke through his chest. Jon was standing, barely. Sweat covered his face, and Ralof quickly kicked the last opponent over and slipped Jon's arm around his back to support his liege lord.

'We need to go.' Without further ado the pair plunged into an alley between two houses, away from the fighting, and started stumbling through the damp corridors of Whiterun. The stench was appalling, but so too was Jon's wound. It bled at a furious pace. Soon, Jon's mail was coated in it, and his face was pale as he let out half murmured cries. He leaned heavily on Ralof as they turned a corner, stepping into a muddy puddle.

'Shit, shit, shit and crap. I hate my life,' Ralof moaned. 'You are a stupid shit Jon Stormcloak who is going to-' They came to a door in the alley and Ralof started kicking it down, still holding Jon; 'fucking,' he kicked it again; 'kill me!' It broke and they tumbled inside.

Ralof closed the door as best as he could and turned to see where they were. The pair were in a house, a small one. It was dark, but Ralof didn't dare risk any light. There were two windows, facing out to the street and a door.

'We must have come through the back way,' the Carl told Jon. There was no reply. 'Right, let's see what we can find to patch you up with.'

Ralof made his way over to a cabinet, but was disappointed. Naturally only healers would have any medical supplies. He looked over at Jon, frustrated and tired, and then it struck him. _Jon's flask has pain killer in it! My sash- _He left the thought there as he ripped off his black sash and made his way over to the fallen Jon.

Ralof took the flask and cut it from its strap with his dagger. He opened it and poured it down the other Nord's throat until Jon started coughing. His eyes flickered open and he pushed Ralof away before gritting his teeth and punching the floor as he struggled with the pain of his wound.

'Shit, Ralof.' He looked at the other man through glazed eyes. 'What happened?'

'It doesn't matter. Let me patch you up.'

Jon nodded and gritted his teeth fiercely as Ralof quickly, and roughly, wrapped the fabric around his wound, pulling it tightly closed. The blood flow was slowing, so it can't have hit a major artery.

'Jon, you are one lucky son of a bitch,' he commented.

'I feel blessed,' Stormcloak said sarcastically, grimacing.

Ralof finished and then sat back against the wall with Jon. 'What do you say we find some alcohol?'

'Ysold doesn't like it when I get drunk,' Jon choked out.

His Housecarl raised his eyebrows at him. 'You care about that now? You my friend,' he said as he went in search of some ale or wine; 'are one uptight, boring Nord.' With a jubilant cry he found a two bottles of strong ale and pulled it down from its shelf. 'Seems our man was a drinker.' Ralof sat next to Jon and passed him a bottle. 'I say Gods bless his vices.' The Carl took a long swig and looked at Jon, who hadn't even opened his, with some concern. 'You know, I would have pegged Lady Ysold as one who liked a wild man.' Jon made no answer. 'If you don't mind me saying, she looks like the kind of woman who likes a wild night. I envy you, my friend. If I could tap that-'

At that Jon jerked up. 'One more word, Ralof,' he warned.

'Fine,' the Carl said, raising his hands to placate the other Nord. He leaned back and listened to the sounds outside. They was getting closer. The doors started jerking, and the wood splintered. Ralof took up his axe, but didn't rise. Jon held his own sword reassuringly.

The door came down with a crash and a man stepped through. A man clad in heavy plate.

'Drinking and joking while we fight Ulfric bloody Stormcloak.' Jarl Balgruuf Wind-Shifter smiled. 'If you weren't the Heir to Windhelm, I'd have your head on a spike, Jon Stormcloak.'

Jon smiled weakly. 'But where would be the fun it that?'

'Well, at least we wouldn't have to stare at your gloomy expression all day,' Ralof suggested. Jon looked at him, and the Carl shrugged. 'You know I'm right, Jon. Yes you do.' Then he took another drink of ale.

**300 reviews! REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVVVVV VIEW, please. Nearly there! **


	66. Leaving Promises

**We have three chapters left after this. Yes, this chapter IS VERY SHORT. There was nothing else to say really, so it just became this length. That's it. **

**Onto the thanks! To JakMar. What you did was special. Although hardy a word fro each really, you wrote FIVE reviews! Commitment to the cause, most definitely! I will put in a Sparta reference in the next books, but not this story. To BrunetteAuthorette, thanks for the review! As always, I'm really pleased to see that Ralof managed to spark a few smiles! To HereLies, another massive review, which is brilliant! I'm always happy for you to compare Jon and Ulfric and I liked your comments on Balgruuf and everything relating to him, such as the different POV and how he was actually getting on with Siddgeir. It won't last. To DraGG, thanks for the review! Sorry, it wasn't the 300th, but what can you do. Jon has so much more to do, so he's not going to die yet. Anyway, he's way too awesome. As is Ralof. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! The chapter was mostly a battle, so there wasn't much dialogue. Like I said, I want to go to Rome and as for my age, what do you think? I won't take offence, no matter what you say, but I'd be interested in what you're think. By the way, you should set up an account so I can PM message you. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! Ralof was goading Jon into actually acting like a living person. He would never, ever actually go for Ysold, even if he was ordered to. (And not because he wouldn't want to.) To Mega Kilo 69, thanks for the review. I thought it was funny, but if anyone can have a drink during a battle, it is indeed Ralof. And General 77. Cool, I'm really glad you liked the chapters. And may I thank you again for doubting my social life. It inspires confidence! :) And so far, my addiction is a-ok. To She's Comin, thanks for the review. Glad you're liking it.**

**Thanks guys. I really appreciate it. I'm loving the support I'm getting and we are nearly there. So close to the end. Only three more chapters! Also, (here's a hint, Delphine hater), I'm going back to College in a day or so, and as a result the chapter speed may slow down a bit. Anyway, just telling you. Stay happy! **

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak**

**Lady Ysold Stormcloak watched as Jon **Stormcloak mounted his horse. It was a big beast, huge but docile. Saddlebags, armour and weapons hung from its bulk but she had little interest for any of those.

Jon was leaving for war. Behind him, where they stood outside the city, men marched out of the main gate of Whiterun and onto the road to Windhelm. Jarl Igmund had arrived less than a week ago, smashing into the back of Ulfric's forces just as the city was being overrun. With him were the Thanes of Solitude, who having never had time to fight in the Battle for Solitude, marched on the city and freed Jarl Elisif from Stormcloak control. She herself didn't ride with them, instead her bannermen were led by Carl Aenar Strong-Arm, the brother Areas, Thane of Stark. From all accounts he was a very capable general and military tactician, but it was all too similar to a storybook for Ysold's taste. That said, it was the result that mattered. They had won.

The Battle of Whiterun had been at a standstill before Jarl Igmund arrived, and as soon as he had seen him, Ulfric had pulled back, making for Windhelm. That was where Jon was going now, with his army, to kill Ulfric and end the war.

It was an empty victory though. Ysold had tried to get Jon to stay, but he had refused. It was his war now, and he was their leader. She hadn't wanted to accept it, nor had she wanted to sour their last days together, so Ysold nodded and silently prayed he would give up on his mad quest.

But there was no such luck. Jon was going to war, no matter what she said, or did. Ysold clenched her mouth shut, for fear of crying, but her eyes gave her away. Jon leaned down and wiped a tear from her before dismounting again. He moved close and held her head in his big hands, his beautiful, sparkling eyes roaming over her, looking for some way he could comfort her.

'Ysold, I have to go. You know this.'

'Why you?'

Jon looked at her, his face shifting from its mask to show great sadness. 'I am the last Stormcloak left. We are going to take Windhelm. If I don't fight, then I have no right to it. If we win, it will make a better life for us, and Alsfur.'

'I know,' she choked out. 'But why does it have to be so hard?'

'The best things in life never come easily.'

Ysold nodded, and started crying. Jon held her, his warm body calming her as he sobbed into his chest. He soothed her, rubbing her back gently and speaking soft words to her. Ysold was finally able to regain her composure, not wanting to appear too weak, and she looked up at him with a determined air.

'Go then, Jon. Go with my blessing. Finish this feud with Ulfric, end the war and then come home to me, and Alsfur, and…' She bit back her tongue. Ysold wanted to say more, but she couldn't just yet. She tried to work up the courage, but failed so instead she kissed him passionately and then pushed him away gently, forcing a smile onto her face. But she had to tell him soon. She didn't want to become too melodramatic, but it was hard; so hard, given the present circumstances.

'Are you coming, Stormcloak?' It was Jarl Balgruuf, sitting on a horse, out across the plain. Carl Ralof was next to him, as well as the other Captains. _Jon's battle commanders. _

Jon Stormcloak swung himself onto his horse and looked down at Ysold. 'I love you, and I will return.'

She nodded weakly, before opening her mouth, then closing it. Jon inclined his head to her and turned his horse, as she managed to force the words out.

'I'm pregnant, Jon!'

He turned, his horse walked backwards as his face registered with the idea, but before he could return, he was absorbed by the 'Captain's of Skyrim' and swept off down the line, as the last of the army marched past.

Ysold stood there, sad, relieved to have got it off her chest, but also angry at having left it so late in their conversation. She looked down as Alsfur came over to her, nearly nine now, and held her hand. It was such a childish thing, hardly comforting, but it made her put on a brave smile for him, which he returned, largely unaware of all that was happening.

'Dad's going to win a Kingdom, isn't he?'

Ysold smiled a sad smile. 'Yes, he is.'

They were all alone.

**Yes, it's short, I've got it. Please review. The next one will be longer, never fear and it will involve snow. Right, cool. Remember to review. Also, check out my Forum if you can. It's called 'If There Was War With the Thalmor.' Peace out. **


	67. Ice And Fire

**Okay, sorry this took so long. Hopefully the next chapters will be out somewhat quicker. Because of the rush on my time, some of you guys might not have received PM messages. I'm sorry about that, but if there are any questions you have, then put it in your review or PM message me. **

**I would have liked to make this longer but again, there wasn't too much to say. That said, it's much longer than the last chapter. Anyway, two more chapters to go. This is the last Ulfric POV. **

**The thanks: To HereLies, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased that you like Ysold and that I'm able to write her well. I also like hearing about how you noticed that Jon is different around her. To JakMar, thanks for the review! I think this next chapter will not be what you expect, but it is in snow. Like I said, the dovah can't be bothered with this war. Alduin was their only 'true' master. Jon has little control over them in reality. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! Okay, I'm 17 years old. That's all you're getting. I'd like to meet you too, but no offence, I'm not going to reveal my real name. That would leave me open to everything. Glad you liked the chapter and that's why you can't make an account! That's cool. To DraGG, thanks for the review! Glad you liked it and I always appreciate irony too. To DragonXander, I like to create hell for my characters, as you'll see in the next ones. A younger sibling is a perfect hell. I might show a flashback, but probably not. Hearthfire looks awesome, and I am definitely making a proper palace for my Thane because in the game it means nothing annoyingly. Don't worry, the girls at College/ 6th Form (its called both) are pretty damn hot. Not trying to be sexist but there is definitely a trend through the years of who gets through. Just observing! Yep, my school sucks like that. As for Ralof, I know what you're thinking… To Sirryu, thanks for the review! As long as you like the story, I don't mind. I'm really glad you love it so its great to hear! Thank you everyone! **

**Hopefully the next chapters will be out quicker! **

**High King Ulfric Stormcloak **

**They had been pushed back **for the last month. As they drew nearer to Windhelm, Jon's attempts to trap his army had become more frequent. They had already hit several snow storms, but fortunately, until now, they hadn't been that bad, thought High King Ulfric Stormcloak. They were losing, and the men knew it. Everyday, the cowards left, running into Jon Stormcloak's arms. It filled Ulfric with rage as his son's army was swelled by the deserters, which he had managed to lead with brutal efficiency. _It wouldn't be long before he finally manages to capture and destroy my army,_ Ulfric thought. _And then what? Death, exile… _He couldn't run; it was against everything he stood for.

It was Jon's reputation that was destroying him. His deeds in the past, and actions on the field, had long since surpassed Ulfric's own. Only the most loyal still stayed with the broken figure that was their King. Galmar remained as optimistic as ever, but the other Jarl's watched him warily. Every move felt like someone was about to betray him, but there was nothing he could do. The snow whipped around his host as it disintegrated slowly, but the strangest thing was that he wasn't sure if he should be happy, or angry.

On one side, everything he was fighting for was being slowly taken from him as he watched, powerless. It ripped away at his soul, and Ulfric could only sit and stare at the mess that was his life now. But the worst thing was that he realised that he was wrong. His dream was right, but was this what Alea would really want? Suddenly, he didn't think so. And that, ironically, was what made him so happy.

Jon was his son without a doubt. And as Ulfric thought about him, could he be more proud? He was strong and capable, despite his gloomy exterior. Jon was able to turn men's thoughts as he needed to and he was beating him! His own son was undoing the greatest army that Skyrim had ever seen. He didn't doubt that Balgruuf and Igmund were helping him vastly, but even so, it was now Jon Stormcloak who opposed him. Ulfric couldn't help but feel a certain amount of pride as he reflected on that.

Even so, the elder Stormcloak wasn't one to give up so easily; which was why he was taking the biggest gamble of the war with this ambush. The attack focused on using the heavy snowstorm that surrounded around them even now to their advantage. Every horse that was still alive was being used to go behind Jon's army and then smash into his back. The infantry would engage to distract him, while Ulfric's horse closed in on both sides simultaneously. It completely relied on the storm, but pulled off correctly, it had the potential to end the war in one fell sweep. Even now, his cavalry was surrounding the army, as his infantry feigned battle to distract Jon.

Ulfric was confident in the men doing their work. They were all true, battle hardened, loyal Stormcloaks. No one was left that could turn against them now, and the men would fight to the bitter end. It was a fate Ulfric was prepared for, but he didn't really want to kill his men needlessly now. He may be prepared to die, but in truth he was ready to see Windhelm pass to Jon. The Empire didn't matter anymore, only the fate of the Stormcloak line. It would survive even on both of their deaths, with Jon's son, who with a ting of regret, he realised had never met. Even so Ulfric was dubious as to whether he could kill Jon if given the chance. But it was better not to think of that now, as it only weakened his resolve and left him to the mercy of the fate. If there was one thing Ulfric wanted, it was the power to decide when, and where his life would end.

Galmar rode up next to Ulfric, clad in mail and fur, with a scarf wrapped around his mouth under an iron helm.

'The Calvary is in position. The infantry is moving up to engage the milk-drinking army as we speak. They are attempting to fall back quickly to fool them as planned. Are you ready to charge?' Galmar shouted this through the blizzard, but even though they were right next to each other, Ulfric barely heard what he said.

'Aye, attack! Charge now, Galmar, and do fear not Sovngarde!' He turned to face Jon's army, his men falling in around him. He drew Alea with a sharp tug. The steel rang, but the blade was covered in frost. 'With me, now! We will ride into death, and glory. There is nothing left for you to lose, nothing worth anything but a FREE SKYRIM!' With that, Ulfric put his spurs to his horse and it leaped forward, his hoofs throwing up the snow, his false words ringing in his ears.

His men let loose their own beasts and the rumble of hoofs, and the roaring of the blizzard consumed their world as everything shrank to nothing. Fear gripped Ulfric as it did every man in a charge. His horse bounced him up and down, as he tightened his numb grip on Alea. Despite being a Nord, he was freezing. By now, a normal man would have been killed in this cold. That said, his blood had began to boil as he anticipated battle. His eyes began to pick out the shapes of men through the white fog, but he had to blink out the snow from his vision. He readied his thu'um, drawing up the tightness in his throat. As it built, so too did the knot in his stomach. His numb body gave him a sense of detachment, and for a second he watched as Ulfric Stormcloak raced into death, opening his mouth in a savage cry of rage.

Fire burst from his lips, warming his body. It exploded in the blizzard, shattering the line of men, who were preparing for the battle with his infantry in front of them. His horse smashed into the press and he brought down Alea, shattering a man's skull. Behind him, his own Stormcloaks broke the line, frozen steel in their grip. Blood flashed up into Ulfric's vision, an unearthly colour in this whiteness, as he ripped through the men, struggling to pull his red blade out with each strike. Another voice pierced the air, shattering the dream, and then Ulfric returned to reality as a blade caught his thigh, cutting it. The King gritted his teeth and thrust his blade deeply into the Nord's throat, reaching down as he did so.

As he rose up, he noticed that the snow was clearing. _No_, he thought, his fear and dismay rushing in over the warm sense of victory he had experienced only moments before. _It can't be. _But it was. Jon was throwing back the blizzard with the power of his voice! Ulfric raised his sword, and spun it to rally his troops. 'Calvary; pull back and surround them. Crush the Imperials between your steel!' With that, Ulfric spurred his horse backward, turning it out of the crush, knocking men over as he did. He brought down Alea on any unwelcome visitors and forced his horse to leap from the battle, onto free ground.

With a cry, and a sharp whinnying, Ulfric pushed his horse away from the battle, watching his men form around him.

'AGAIN!' He roared, pointing his sword at the men who were struggling to reform even as they were surrounded by the Stormcloak infantry. Ulfric touched his spurs to the horse's flanks and they dived back into the battle. This time, there was no thought before he whipped through their ranks, throwing men up and ripping his blade through flesh. The effect they were having was devastating. He had no helm, but still he was hot and he pulled down his scarf to wipe his face as his horse backed away from the main fighting.

'Forward! No mercy now, men!' He dropped Alea to his side and watched as his army tightened the noose around Jon's men. They were fighting back valiantly though. Too valiantly. His own men were struggling for every kill. _If I could just find Jon, I could end this. _Ulfric looked around wildly, but it wasn't hard to spot Jon. His mail sparkled as he rallied his men and his sword was covered in blood as well. For some reason the blade caught his eye, and then it hit him in an unexpected shock. _It can't be._

It was: Jon was wielding Kodaav. That had been Ulfric's own sword, stolen from his Father when he was sent to the Greybeards. He had left it behind because of the bad memories, but to see it here… It left him with a strange chill, and a strange happiness. He was glad that Jon had it, but even as he thought that he finally knew that he couldn't kill Jon. He was Alea's son. _More than that, he's __**my**__ son. _

With his emotions swirling around his mind, threatening to rip it apart, he turned his horse, ignoring the blood and snow, as screams cut through his mind with dizzy painfulness. Ulfric felt sick now; sick of all of it. And then he noticed it. A white army, streaming down the hill. Their banners were raised high; it was Winterhold.

Joy leapt through his mind before he realised what this meant for Jon; he wouldn't survive this. Panic gripped Ulfric and he turned to find Jon, pushing his horse forward desperately. A sword scraped off his chainmail but he ignored it. _Where the fuck's Jon? _His worse fears flooded through his mind and he screamed, tearing through the men now in his crazed attempt to find his son.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He looked just in time to see Jon being surrounded before the Winterhold men slammed into the flank. _Not Jon's though_, Ulfric realised. _Mine._

Bitter anger rushed through him and he sounded his horn, pushing his mount forward out of the battle, over the land and snow, and into defeat. It couldn't end now, not now. It wasn't a hopeless sense of optimism; it was practical. He had to meet Jon again, alone, as Father and Son. Ulfric spurred his horse forward, into the rushing whiteness.

**Please review! It's all building up now. Two more chapters! Let's build up those reviews big time! **


	68. The Life of One

**The second to last chapter then guys. I have an announcement. You've probably guessed that I don't have much time on my hands so I'm probably going to start a new rule thing with my thanks. The PM messages I send to you guys who wrote reviews will definitely continue but I'm probably going to cut the big thanks thing at the start of each chapter. If you don't have a registered account, I'll still put your thanks here and answer any questions you have. If you post a story favourite etc, I'll post it here as well. If you guys don't like it and think that you're not getting the thanks you deserve, tell me and I'll reinstate it. I'm only doing it because it takes up a lot of time so I'm trying to get these chapters out as fast as possible. **

**Okay, the thanks for you guys without a registered account. To Delphine hater, thanks for the review! You'll see what will happen but I just want to say that in Part III of this trilogy, the good guys are going to be killed badly. The bad guys will win sometimes. Their in for a tough ride! (In response to Jon must win as a good guy). Also, I'll think about getting Ralof a girlfriend. Guess we'll see what happens later. To DragonXander, thanks for the review! I'm really pleased that you liked Ulfric's conflicted feelings. It all ends next chapter though… To General77, I was fine withdrawal wise! I have some great reviewers! To Trapinchh, thanks for the favourite, story follower, story favourite and follower! I've sent you a PM message for the review, so thanks! To Guest, thanks for the review. I'm happy to see you liking this. And to Dandanjr, thanks for the story favourite! Like I said, if you really want to be mentioned here, tell me, otherwise, I'll just send you a PM message. Thanks to all you guys! We are now drawing near to a close.**

**Also, I put in something I know you guys were waiting for. It involves Kodlak…**

**Carl Ralof Wood **

'**It's destroyed my Jarl. The **town has fled to Helgen while we wait out any more attacks.'

Siddgeir looked furious. 'How long until we can return?'

'The message says at least a month.'

The Jarl pursed his lips, visibly trying to control his anger. 'Fine,' he spat. 'But I need to go back.'

'You're not going back now, Siddgeir,' Balgruuf interrupted. 'Not now we're here.'

_He's right, _Ralof thought. They had arrived at Windhelm two days ago. After Jarl Korir Winter of Winterhold had arrived, they had made rapid progress to the city. Ulfric's army had fallen back completely to hide behind the high walls of Windhelm, and they were camped in front of it, conducing a siege. Right now, the Captain's of Skyrim were in the command tent, discussing plans of attack, when the message had arrived from Helgen.

'But a dragon attacked Falkreath! What else am I supposed to do?' Siddgeir glared at Jon. 'This is your fault.'

Stormcloak returned Jarl Siddgeir Stuhn's stare. 'Why?'

'You control the dragons, don't you?'

Jon smiled thinly, before answering. 'The dovah are free creatures. No one can control them.'

Siddgeir didn't like this answer, but he couldn't dispute a known fact, so he sulked silently.

'Can we return to the meeting?' Jarl Korir asked then impatiently.

Siddgeir nodded, and apologized. _He's only ever a dick to Jon and Jarl Balgruuf,_ Ralof mused. _The other Jarl's have no idea of his true colours._

Jarl Korir began talking, which gave Ralof the opportunity to inspect their newfound ally with more detail. Korir was an auburn haired Nord of medium stature. He was in his early thirties now, but his face was more lined and weary than it should be, no doubt because of the College of Winterhold and it's antics, the home to Mages in Skyrim. _They are a secretive bunch,_ Ralof reflected. _It's no wonder that Korir loses sleep over them_.  
He fought with a massive two handed sword, much like the one Ralof now carried again, but his was white wood and silver, the colours of Winterhold. Under his arm was the Helm of Winterhold, the legendary relic of Clan Winter, borne by his ancestors since the Dragon War. It was a full helm, with visor, made of old, simmering Skyforge Steel.

He may be new to the cause, but his loyalty was not in doubt. He had leaped into their councils with enthusiasm, perhaps exactly _so_ he could prove his loyalty to them. In any case, it didn't bother Ralof; so long as he fought with courage, he would do alright.

The war meeting was beginning to bore the Housecarl, so he caught Jon's eye and nodded his head in the direction of the door. Jon nodded and returned to his meeting, quickly overriding Igmund's ideas of an attack. _As if he's one of them already, _Ralof thought, amused. But for anyone not involved, that is anyone who wasn't a Jarl, the meetings were in fact bloody boring, so he ducked out of the tent quickly and breathed in the sharp air of Eastmarch.

_The last time I was here, I was a Stormcloak. Now, I suppose I am still a Stormcloak, in a strange way. _Musing on life's little wonders, Ralof decided it was about time he saw his sister, especially after what had happened recently.

Feeling light, somehow, Ralof trotted through the snow to her tent, located in Balgruuf's following. It was fairly easy to see, now furnished with the colours of Clan Wood; a deep red, with bronze outlining the oak tree in the middle. It was a new sigil, having only been made a few weeks ago, when Balgruuf had anointed Gerdur as a Thane.

Naturally it had shocked Ralof just as much as her, but she really did deserve it. Her quick response to Balgruuf's original summons, despite her known Stormcloak loyalties, and amazing display in rallying a province of Whiterun with no real Thane, had only added to her exceptional leadership in battle. Ralof himself had never been aware of his sister's talents, having left to make his fortunes when she was only fifteen, but in his regular visits he was surprised that he had never even noticed. It just served to show how self-centred he could be sometimes, Ralof thought ruefully, an emotion largely unknown to him until now.

There had been other perks of course. Gerdur had taken on the surname 'Wood', and being her brother, Ralof had given it as well. That was good, as now he knew how Jon felt having been turned into nobility overnight, and he was now second in line to Riverwood. That, Ralof didn't like to think about, seeing as both Gerdur and her son, his nephew, would have to die before he could become Thane. In any case, Ralof was more than content to be a Housecarl.

Taking a deep breath in preparation of meeting his sister, the Thane, he stepped through the flap, and was met by a familiar sight. Gerdur was on the floor, playing with her son, Vifnuun, while Hod watched as he took a swig of ale. On seeing Ralof, Vifnuun, a boy of about five now, ran up shouting greeting and the Housecarl lifted him up and spun him around, smiling. He put him back down and the boy ran back to his Mother, who was still on the floor watching her brother happily.

'I was wondering when I would see you! Housecarl to Jon Stormcloak. You seem to rise like a falcon on fair winds.'

Ralof grinned. 'And you, Thane Gerdur. That's higher than Carl,' he pointed out.

She nodded modestly. 'True. It's not that much different though.'

'Just wait until you move into the palace!' Ralof said.

'It's only a longhouse. We'll have to build one first.'

Hod came up next to her. 'We own a timber mill. Wood won't be a problem.' He extended his hand and Ralof grasped it. 'It's good to see you again.'

'And you, Hod.' In a mock whisper he said to Gerdur; 'watch this one. He'll drink the town dry.'

'Not if he wants to remain my husband,' he said, looking up at him fondly.

'Nope. I'm not risking any chance of losing my Thanehood,' Hod said.

'I think it's my Thane_ship_, Hod,' Gerdur corrected. 'And anyway, you're not Thane.'

'I'm not sure. I think they'll make exceptions for such a great man as myself.'

Gerdur put on a sceptical face. 'They will, will they?'

'Sure,' he agreed.

She shook her head before turning back to Ralof. 'Do you want a drink?'

He looked around, before saying; 'Why not? It's not like Jon's expecting me for guard duty tonight.' He sat on a wooden stool and took the drink she offered him, settling down and letting the warmth of the tent take him over. It was a nice tent. Large, with a small wooden table, a proper seat for Gerdur and stools for everyone else. There were two bedrolls on the floor, covered in warm furs. _They got her outfitted quickly._

'What's Jon like?'

'What?' Ralof hadn't heard the question.

'Jon. He's the one who came with you the day Ulfric arrived at Riverwood?' she prompted.

'That's the one. Black hair, grumpy attitude.'

'I remember him. Looking back on it now, he did look a lot like Ulfric.'

'Well, he's his son isn't he?'

'Anything like Ulfric?'

Ralof put his drink down and regarded Gerdur carefully. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing, I'm just wondering.'

'Well, he's proud in his own way, and silent. Jon can convince men when he needs to and he's very brave, but he's… well, he doubts his abilities, and he often scares off people before they can understand him. He has Ulfric's temper for sure.'

'I remember now. He was an…' Gerdur searched for the word; 'enigma. An unknown.'

'I guess,' Ralof agreed warily.

'Look,' she said, holding up her hands; 'I just want to make sure you're okay.'

'That's _my_ job, as the elder,' Ralof said. 'Jon's fine. He's a lad if you fill him with enough mead. I'll tell you though, you'd have a hard time of it. It's hard enough to get him to drink, unless given on express order of his wife. I think life is going to be very interesting if he succeeds as Jarl.' Ralof leaned back and took another sip of his drink, musing silently as they turned the conversation over to different things.

**Windhelm was in front of **them, huge and imposing. The snow was falling lightly now. This was where it all ended. Here, Ulfric would die, the Stormcloak cause would end, and Jon would ascend as Jarl. It was all so theatrical.

'Ready to go?' It was Hadvar, who was armoured proudly in his Imperial mail and leather. His sword hung at his side and a quiver was slung across his back.

'I'm always ready,' Ralof boasted lightly.

'I'll bet I'll kill more than you.'

'That's I a bet I'm willing to take.'

'A pint in Candlehearth Hall it is.'

'You got it.'

Jon came up next to them, armoured and holding his shield. His face was a mask of gloomy sorrow. With a start Ralof realised that they were here to kill his Father. He decided that he needed to cheer Jon up.

'You're coming for a drink at Candlehearth. We've got a bet on who can kill the most.'

Jon just nodded and looked around. The men were ready. Ralof and Hadvar were merely near the front of a huge force, each section directed by its respective Jarl and Thanes. With a last sigh, Jon put his horn to his lips and blew into it. The sound, a clear, hearty cry of valour, rang throughout the mountainside with an inspiring presence. Before they could move though, another horn rang out, the sign of a ceasefire. Jon quickly bellowed out orders to stop the men before stepping forward with a slightly sceptical expression, and a little hope. Ralof and Hadvar followed as the other Jarls and Captain's broke from the crowd to meet up with Jon.

'What's happening?' Igmund asked, dressed in mail with a green surcoat emblazed with the sigil of Clan Oath.

Jon shrugged. 'I don't know.'

As they waited they saw shapes coming across the bridge. When they got closer they were revealed to be Galmar Stone-Fist with the Stormcloak captains. Ulfric was nowhere to be seen.

'Ho there! Captain's of Skyrim!'

Jon strode forward, followed by the other Captain's until he was a few feet from Galmar, who dismounted quickly. 'What do you want?' he asked, suspiciously.

'The chance to save our city.'

'How?' Jon was looking calm, but his eyes betrayed his impatience.

The old Carl raised his voice. 'Single combat. One of your champions, against me.'

Ripples went throughout the army as they started babbling excitedly. Jon didn't calm them, instead he resumed talking. 'What do we get?'

'To assault Windhelm would kill thousands of your men. You might even lose,' he said evenly. 'I ask for the chance to decide this matter with only one life.'

'If you win?'

'The King would also ask for a promise to swear him allegiance. All the Jarls. He would like to talk to you especially, Jon Stormcloak.'

'That would just prolong the war though.'

Galmar ignored him. 'You win, we'll back down and disperse, leaving you to do as you wish. Ulfric will submit himself to your judgement.'

Jon considered this. Ralof himself was all for it. If they lost they could just resume the war or attack anyway; it was not honourable, but necessary. The advantage of single combat though was that the war could be decided with only one more life.

'I've got a question,' Jon said, breaking the silence. 'Where is Ulfric?'

A flicker of panic crossed Stone-Fist's eyes, but he quickly concealed it. 'He prays to Talos.'

'Right.' Jon didn't look convinced. He turned away to the Captains, his voice low. 'Ulfric isn't here. I need to find him.'

Ralof wasn't expecting that announcement and his brain shut down as he tried to comprehend what Jon had said. 'What do you mean?' Ralof asked as thoughts swirled through his head.

'I'm going to find him. Bring me a horse,' he called to a man in the crowd. 'I'm trusting you to take Windhelm while I get Ulfric.'

'You can't be serious,' Balgruuf said in disbelief. 'You're leaving now? Wait to take the city and _then_ capture the bastard!'

'He could escape.'

'No, that is not an excuse.'

'I'm doing this!' Jon said angrily. 'It doesn't matter what you say, I'm going to do this alone.' The Jarls looked cowed by his anger, and Balgruuf backed down, his expression dark.

Ralof realised what this meant for him. 'What about me?'

Jon's face softened. 'I have to do this alone. You understand?'

'No, I don't,' he said, unable to properly understand; 'but Talos speed, Jon Stormcloak. Don't die.'

Jon took the waiting horse and mounted. He nodded without a word and then galloped off, his horse kicking up snow from the ground. And like that, Thane Jon Stormcloak was gone.

Balgruuf was fuming silently but he managed to turn back to the other Jarls and speak calmly. 'Who wants to do it then?'

The Jarl's looked uncomfortable. Ralof didn't want to do it. He had heard stories of Galmar and none of them good. He would die if he fought the old Carl, so he remained quiet, watching the others carefully. They all looked at each other, silenced by fear before a voice broke out.

'I'll do it!' It was Farkas, a Companion. 'I'll do it for my brother! I want to make them pay.' With a pang of guilt, Ralof remembered that his brother had been killed in the Battle for Whiterun. _Wars will make corpses of us all, _he mused gloomily.

Balgruuf nodded his head before another voice entered the fray, this one loud and sure. 'No, I'll do it.' Kodlak Whitemane stepped out from between their ranks, the Harbinger of the Companions, one of the greatest warriors alive. 'Galmar and I have bad blood between us.'

Ralof looked him over; if anyone could win, it was Kodlak. He was a man of fifty, with a mane of white hair, a strong, snowy beard, armoured in the gold of the Companions. The armour was made of a strange skyforge steel, with wolf designs over it. A longsword hung by his side, and a round shield was strapped to his left arm.

'I'll do it,' he repeated.

'I want vengeance,' Farkas said, his anger clouding his face.

Kodlak's face softened. 'And you will get it. But you are in no fit state to fight. I will avenge Vilkas.'

Farkas considered this carefully, before sagging with defeat. 'Aye, Harbinger. I will trust you,' he said, his voice breaking with worry and fear.

Kodlak nodded before turning to Balgruuf. 'Call him back, and I will see how sharp his steel is.'

The Jarl looked too happy at the way things had turned out and he nodded. 'Galmar, we have decided!'

The Carl moved over to them, his long grey hair blowing in the snowy air. 'Where has Jon 'Stormcloak' gone, eh? Too cowardly to watch his own defeat.'

'That is none of your business, Galmar,' Igmund said icily. 'Your business is here.'

'Aye, it is. I will kill any one of you.'

'Can you kill me?' Kodlak said grimly, stepping forward.

He looked at the Harbinger with appreciative eyes. 'A good opponent.' They stared at each other, before Galmar started chuckling. 'Still upset by my "betrayal", Whitemane.'

'Leaving in battle is a betrayal as good as any.'

'The Companions are an Imperial cause, not a Nordic one. I couldn't fight with them any longer.'

'So instead you joined a tyrant?'

'Ulfric is the true King-'

'Perhaps,' Kodlak agreed. 'But he can still be a tyrant.'

Galmar stared at him icily, his jaw locked angrily, and his eyes blazing. 'Fine. Let's do this then.'

He stepped into the entrance of the bridge, his captains behind him. Jon's own army starting craning their heads forward, shouting and exchanging predictions. _It's become an arena already_, Ralof thought with disgust. _I had hoped Jon's cause would mean something for a moment longer. _

Kodlak stepped into the area ready for the fight. It was bare, save the beginnings of the paved walkway of the great bridge into Windhelm. He was bareheaded, as was Galmar. It was tradition in a Nordic single-combat. The Carl was in mail and fur, with a heavy iron warhammer in his hands, and a sword at his side. Kodlak had his sword, infinitely more deadly in the hands of a skilled wielder. The Harbinger drew it as Galmar advanced and took the first blow on his shield. The fight had begun.

They exchanged blows slowly, warming to each others fighting style before the combat really begun. Galmar brought down his warhammer on Kodlak's head but the Harbinger deflected with his shield and slashed at Galmar's open guard. The Carl dodged back and Kodlak used his shield to knock the warhammer away and then thrust to hit Galmar's heart. With the speed of a man half his age he twisted to allow the blade to past him before whipping back his left arm across Kodlak's face. The Harbinger fell back stunned and Galmar swung his warhammer with one hand, an immense feat, catching the unprepared Harbinger on his shield. The heavy iron dented the metal and Kodlak staggered to the side with the shields momentum. In a flash Galmar dropped his hammer and drew his sword, whipping it round at Kodlak's head. The harbinger ducked the blow, barely, before bringing his shield up to connect with Galmar's face and then slashing with his sword which Galmar parried as he spat out blood from his mouth.

Ralof was worried. In truth the contest should be over now; Kodlak should have won, but Galmar was displaying a form that no one could have expected. Kodlak looked surprised by he showed no fear, just steely determination. Farkas looked anxious as he watched then both with the eyes of a desperate man.

Kodlak had dropped his shield as it was becoming heavy and the dent had become a crack now, making it useless. They fought with swords, steel on steel. The blades flashed in the cool winter air, but both men were already sweating. Galmar brought his down on Kodlak's head, but he parried and countered to the Carl's leg. Galmar kicked the blade away with a small, precise kick before backhanding his sword across Kodlak's chest. The Harbinger dodged, but the rasp of steel was heard as the blade gouged his breastplate.

Kodlak looked surprised, and a little scared, but he regained his composure quickly and dodged under Galmar's blade backwards with incredible agility, cutting across Galmar's undefended back, drawing blood. The Carl bellowed and turned, unleashing a vicious attack on the Harbinger who fell back beneath the blows. But Galmar was slow; the wound must be more serious than they fought. Kodlak had resorted to using his bracers to block some of the blows and missed deflects had cut up his arms. His face was calm though, planning, ready for victory. They were against the bridges edge now, and the Harbinger looked like he would be fought off the edge. Kodlak had other plans though.

He stepped back so he was in front of the one of the great pillars that made up the entrance to the open bridge. When Galmar thrust forward, hoping to trap Kodlak against the stone, the Harbinger caught the blade between his body and his own weapon. With quick timing and precise movements, he knocked the Carl's blade up, exposing his guard, but instead of stabbing him, Kodlak grabbed the back of Galmar's head and threw him into the pillar. With a cry, the Carl's nose broke and Kodlak dropped to one knee, slicing his blade across Galmar's knee. Blood burst out and he threw the injured Housecarl to the stone ground, moving to stand over him.

'For Vilkas,' he said as he stabbed the blade down, breaking the Carl's ribcage, and into Galmar Stone-Fist's heart. A breath echoed throughout the army as they released their tension and started cheering. The remaining Stormcloak captains threw their weapons at the Captain's of Skyrim's feet and the army started marching forward, into Windhelm, the Jarls congratulating Kodlak. Farkas looked sick, but firmer, and happier. The Stormcloaks kept their word and as they approached, the gates opened. Kodlak took the first step in, as was his right, and they headed up to the Palace of Kings. In reality, it was more of a castle, with high walls and a strong gate, and into the throne room.

It was empty, as Jon had predicted. Ulfric was nowhere to be seen. Balgruuf sent men to search the rooms while Ralof headed up to the great Throne of Ysgramor, Jon's now. Siddgeir followed close behind them, staring at it greedily and the other Jarls followed him. Falkreath made for it, but Ralof held him back, his hand on his axe. The Housecarl looked him in the eyes, making his stare icy and cold. The Jarl got the message and backed down. Ralof wanted to make sure that they all knew what was happening.

'Jon Stormcloak will now ascend as Jarl of Windhelm, with all its powers, and no other lesser man, aye?' Ralof said pointedly. He directed his stare at Siddgeir especially.

Balgruuf looked around the grand hall once, and then proved his honour. 'He has my support, and sword.'

Igmund stepped forward. 'And mine.'

Korir looked at them all before decided. 'He is noble. No one else is more worthy.'

Siddgeir knew when to back down. 'My sword will defend him,' he agreed elaborately.

Ralof sagged with relief. Jon's position was secure, and by rights of succession, so too was his sons. He turned to the only man he really could trust now; Hadvar.

They clasped hands, and Ralof smiled. 'We won.'

'How about that drink?' Hadvar asked, with a grin.

'I can't. Not now. I need you to do me a favour.'

He nodded. 'Anything.'

'I need you to bring the Lady Ysold and Thegn Alsfur here, to take up their positions. I can't leave; the city must be secured and the idea of a new 'Imperial' Jarl presented to them. Her Ladyship can make the appointments when she gets here, if Jon isn't back by then.'

'I will find them, on my honour.' Hadvar nodded and strode off, calling an escort to him.

Ralof sighed and turned back to the throne before sitting on the steps in front of it. Will Jon return? He was going to fight Ulfric Stormcloak. Somehow, Ralof wasn't sure how likely it seemed, but it wasn't his place, so he sat back and prayed to Talos.

**Please review. The next chapter is the final. And it's a Jon one. **


	69. Evgir Unslaad

**This is the very last chapter. The end of Season Unending. I will release the next part of The Season's Trilogy in a few days. It will be called 'Season's Ruler'. Hopefully, you guys are looking forward to it. **

**The thanks; to Badger2430, thanks for the favourite, story favourite, follower, and story follower. To DragonXander, thanks for the review. I'm sorry about cutting out the end of the battle but I'll add them in my other stories. I'm pleased you liked the fight, and here it is. The confrontation. Thank you all including Pm message guys. For this chapter I will answer the things for a week before leaving it in hibernation mode. **

**(By the way, the draconic is minimal because I didn't want to messing up sentences that need to stay fluid.) Let's try and get the most reviews ever for a chapter of this story. **

**Thanks all for sticking with it. I hope that this was the conclusion you wanted…**

**Jon Stormcloak**

**Jon Stormcloak entered Falkreath as** a light drizzle began to fall. His horse was blown and his cloak hung limp from his shoulders. Kodaav rattled against it's sheath and his silvery mail's weight pulled him down, but he was there.  
Jon wasn't certain where his father would be, but he suspected that there was only one place Ulfric Stormcloak would be found. As he made his way through the town, he looked around. It was a mess. Buildings were scorched ruins and there wasn't a living creature in sight. _It must have been some dovah attack, _he reflected.  
He rode his key, _horse,_ to the Jarl's longhouse, strands of his hair getting in his eyes. He brushed them away with his hand, and dismounted. Jon pushed the door open to find Ulfric Stormcloak, the former Jarl of Windhelm and his Father sitting in the Jarl's throne, his head bowed. At the sound of wind and rain he raised his head, registering Jon slowly.  
'I thought you would come,' he said, his deep voice breaking the silence. Ulfric's voice sounded eerily like Jon's own now. 'You are the son I would have had, Jon.' He said quietly.  
Jon wasn't ready to listen to this, so he stayed silent, making his way further into the longhouse. He found a chair and pulled it up, sitting quietly. The lack of sound was being oppressive though, Jon felt that he needed to break the silence, _nahlot_, somehow. 'Mother's in Sovngarde,' he said awkwardly.  
Ulfric nodded. 'I am glad she made it, and proud you saw it,' he murmured.  
'Thank you, Father.'  
Ulfric's expression softened at the word. 'I would have loved you, Jon. I would have raised you as my son, my heir. As a Stormcloak.'  
'Why did you never find me?'  
Ulfric's mouth tightened. 'I didn't know until a few months ago.'  
'Then why not then?'  
Ulfric's expression was pained. 'I... I had an enemy to fight.'  
'So did I, yet I would have searched for you.'  
'But you never did search for your father, did you?'  
'I did, in a sense,' Jon replied, sharper than he had intended.  
The elder Stormcloak laughed a bitter laugh, ignoring his son's anger. 'How alike we are, eh?' He fell back to his musing slowly, staring at his lap.  
Jon noticed that his father was wearing silver mail, with plate covering his shoulders, upper torso and arms, identical to Jon's own. A sword hung at his side.  
The younger Stormcloak noticed this. 'I thought you preferred an axe?'  
'It... this was the sword that killed your mother.'  
Jon nodded, pain threatening to reach up and pull him into oblivion as he registered the weapon. He struggled with his emotions, forcing them back down as Ulfric watched. He seemed to understand, yet he said no word. They sat like that for a while before the younger Stormcloak spoke again.  
'I have to kill you.'  
'Why?' Ulfric questioned, flaring up suddenly. 'My cause is just. I'm simply trying to help my people.'

'You are not helping them-'

'I am! I will!'  
'How?' Jon said, his anger boiling up now, his voice harsh and cold. 'By gifting them with death, and uncertainty? You've created Evgir Unslaad, Ulfric! Season Unending! Never ending war, Father! That is your legacy. Is that what you wanted?'  
'I fight for peace-'  
'But you're only good enough for war! Don't you understand?' Tears were running down Jon's face, and pure anguish overwhelmed his expression.  
Ulfric Stormcloak stood, his face furious and his fists clenched. Jon remained sitting, still pained, but unintimidated by his Father's anger.  
'It is true though, isn't it?' Jon reasoned gently, his anger diminished.  
Ulfric looked ready to protest but didn't, instead sitting wearily, nodding.  
'All we Stormcloaks were ever good at was war. I told your mother such a thing….' No answer. 'When we met, everything changed.' Still Jon made no move to talk to his father, so wrapped up in his own pain was he, so Ulfric took another tack, trying to draw speech from his son.  
'You have a son, and a wife, don't you?' The younger Stormcloak nodded and Ulfric continued. 'Do you love them?' Again, Jon nodded. 'Then cherish every moment with them, as I have with you.'  
And with that, Ulfric Stormcloak stood and drew his steel.  
Jon rose too and stepped back, drawing his own sword. The skyforge steel glowed lightly.  
'You have my sword. It has been a long time since I saw that blade.' Ulfric circled Jon, who stood watching him pass. 'It is powerful,' he said quietly, before letting out a booming laugh. 'But I fear we both know who's going to win this.'  
'That was a long time ago.' Jon said.  
'It was,' he agreed. 'But not long enough, I fear.'  
The younger Stormcloak knew he was right. But he wouldn't show it. 'Remember when I told you about your armour?' His father nodded. 'It won't protect you, not this time.'  
'I do remember you being fairly critical of it.' He motioned at his body. 'You said "I armoured myself in a god-like reputation".'  
Jon nodded. He found it strange that Ulfric still remembered that.  
Ulfric gave Jon a wry smile. 'I finally see you, as my son... I never imagined it this way.'  
'You lived by the sword. It seems fitting that you die by it.'  
'I seem to recall that you lived the same way.' Ulfric commented. 'How alike we are, still.'  
'I'm not like you.'  
Ulfric raised an eyebrow. 'Are we not? Think again, Jon Stormcloak. Your temper, that's mine I'm afraid. Your very body, it is slender compared to mine and your hair is black, from your mother, but everything else. I can't believe I never saw it before.'  
'You never saw beyond yourself,' Jon said bitterly.  
Ulfric looked hurt. 'I helped you-'  
'But you never really cared for us!'  
'I didn't know-'  
'I thought Mother told you.'  
His father stopped moving, looking deeply wounded and he sank back. 'Her name was Alea. No surname, she wasn't-'  
'Special? Another prize?' Jon shot at him.  
Anger coloured Ulfric's features. He made a threatening gesture. 'That is too far! I have made my mistakes, but I will not hear anything against my devotion for her!'  
Silence returned as the tension evaporated. Jon looked up. 'You loved her?' he asked, not daring to really believe it.  
'Always.'  
Jon felt sick. He had misjudged Ulfric completely, but he couldn't go back now. It was too late for Skyrim.  
'Are you ready to die?' he said instead.  
His father readied himself. 'I think I am.'  
'But will you go quietly instead?'  
'A Stormcloak never surrenders, Jon. Remember that.'  
Ulfric stepped forward and swung his blade down. Jon blocked and slammed his hilt into his Father's stomach, before swinging up the blade to cut open Ulfric's face. The elder dodged back, winded, and looked on Jon with new eyes. It would be a duel to the death, with no rules.  
Ulfric ran forward and dodged under Jon's swing, aiming his own blade at his son's leg, but Jon lifted it quickly and backhanded his blade. Ulfric deflected it off his gauntlet.  
Jon thrust forward, and Ulfric trapped the blade, then delivered a devastating headbutt to his son's face, followed by a hard kick. Jon fell, and he spat out blood, ignoring the pain as he rolled away from Ulfric's downward strikes. Jon got up quickly, swinging his blade wildly to keep his father off of him. The elder waited a second before launching a new attack, each blow hard and precise.  
Jon parried but he quickly fell back to the doorway. Ulfric swung at his head and he ducked. The blade embedded itself in the frame, but before Jon could act Ulfric let go of his blade, swinging his right hand in a punch at Jon's face, which the younger Stormcloak ducked, before catching him with his left, which split Jon's cheek. He grabbed his dazed son, blood running down his face, and threw him through the door, breaking it.  
Jon fell in the mud outside the longhouse, with the rain falling heavily now. Kodaav fell from his hand and he groaned as the pain of the impact took him, touching his cheek gingerly. He struggled up, to see Ulfric approaching, with his sword grasped tightly in his hand. The elder hesitated briefly before he swung his sword down and in a purely instinctual move, Jon blocked it with his muddy bracer, which it bit into deeply, and then he locked it there by slamming down his other arm over it. Ulfric briefly struggled but before he could overcome his natural response Jon kicked him in the leg, making him gasp, before swinging a devastatingly wild punch into Ulfric's jaw. Blood and a tooth fell onto the younger Stormcloak, who then twisted Ulfric's blade from his grip and swung it at him. The hilt caught his face, cutting a deep gash along his chin and Ulfric fell to the ground, spiting out dark blood, mixing it with the muddy ground.  
Jon struggled to his feet, his limbs aching, but fuelled on by adrenaline. Ulfric seized Kodaav and stood, his face murderous and bloody, but still he hesitated, waiting for Jon to get up. The younger Stormcloak didn't register this and stood his ground, scared to face up against his own blade.  
The elder swung at Jon's arm and he sidestepped before ducking under the next swing, stepping round to his Father's other side. He deflected the next thrust off his bracers, but Ulfric drew it back quickly and the blade ripped through his mail, cutting his upper arm heavily. Jon growled in pain and tried to punch his Father with his good arm, but he blocked it and tried to stab his son again. This time, Jon caught the weapon in-between his arm and chest and pulled it away. Ulfric let it go readily but then launched into a brutal unarmed attack on Jon.  
The younger Stormcloak gasped as Ulfric's heavy mail gloves winded him and shouted out as his uppercut dislocated his jaw. Jon staggered back and attempted to grab Ulfric, but the former Jarl broke the grip expertly and threw Jon to the ground.  
Ignoring his wounds, Jon rolled to grab Kodaav as Ulfric retrieved his own sword. He managed to get to his knees before his father was on him, raining down blows on his head. Sweat poured into his eyes. Jon knew he was going to have to break out or die. It was that simple. The prospect of death didn't scare him, though. But he couldn't die now. Jon had made a promise to Ysold.  
With a cry of fury he lifted his blade, turned it, locking Ulfric's sword, and then used the locked hilts to stab his father's blade into the ground, where he lifted his own and slammed it down, breaking Ulfric's sword in half. Without hesitation Jon smashed his blade through Ulfric's rib cage and his father fell to the floor, coughing up blood. Shock enveloped his whole face, but as he looked up at Jon he smiled, his teeth red.  
Jon's face was strained, but tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks as he finally comprehended what he had done.  
'Jon.' His son looked down at him, before slumping next to his dying father, exhausted. 'You have to make me a promise.'  
'Anything, Father,' Jon said, all grudges gone. All his hate had been wiped out; this battle had been for Skyrim, not himself anymore. Jon tightened his jaw, resisting the violent, nerve bending pain that rammed through it as he spoke. The sadness and guilt of the outcome was threatening to take him over.  
'Promise me you will never blame yourself for what has happened here.'  
'But Father-'  
'Enough!' Ulfric started to cough great hacking coughs, blood spilling from his mouth. Each breath was low and rasping. 'Promise you will see our line survive.'  
Jon nodded, feeling like a boy. 'I swear, Father.'  
Ulfric Stormcloak nodded, before falling back in the mud, his face sweaty and pale. 'It hurts so much.'  
'I'm here, Father.'  
Fondness turned Ulfric's features and he smiled a true smile, reserved for Alea. 'Yes, you are.' And then he died, leaving Jon alone in the bloody, slushy mud.  
He let out a great cry of grief, his body shaking with his sobs. He cursed Paarthurnax, he cursed Skyrim, and he cursed fate, but none of them gave him any satisfaction. It was a long time before he managed to raise himself, but when he did he stumbled back into the longhouse, his wounds burning. Picking up a spade he went back outside to the nearby graveyard and started digging, his pain fuelling his flagging strength. It was midday before the muddy hole was ready, and with as much reverence as he could, Jon Stormcloak buried his father in the ground of Falkreath, among the other bodies of the dead heroes.

As he surveyed the ground, running through all the best memories he had of his Father, he noticed the grave next to it. It was his mother's. Drawing his sharp skyforge steel dagger he fell to his knees and starting scratching on the gravestone, writing what he wanted to see as tears mixed with the rain in a sour mixture of pain.

_Here lies Alea Stormcloak, and Ulfric Stormcloak, High King of Skyrim, and father of the Dragonborn. _Jon lay the broken remains of his Father's weapon by the grave and stood, breathing deeply, as the rain flickered to a halt. The sun burst through the clouds and Jon Stormcloak smiled, his pain starting ebb away. It would be a slow process, but it would happen, eventually. And that, was good.


End file.
